


Second Son

by lonerofthepack



Series: Mages of Aethyrmere [2]
Category: Original Work, Sleeping Beauty (Fairy Tale)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad Parenting Skills Lead to Consequences, Blow Jobs, Dragons, Gods, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Male OC/Male OC - Freeform, Medical Condition, Oral Sex, Original work - Freeform, Politics, Torture, animal injury, feelings with porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-03-22 20:09:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 79,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3742069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonerofthepack/pseuds/lonerofthepack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequal to Child of Rapine. Roarke/Nick. A sort of Sleeping Beauty fairy tale.</p>
<p>A curse, or perhaps it was a gift, was laid upon the child as it lay sleeping in a cradle; to sleep thus forever, until the spell could be lifted...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is another rather old fic. Apologies, the beta'ing got squirrelly and stayed that way.
> 
> This is a direct sequal to Child of Rapine. The timeline may be spotty--just ignore the man behind the curtain, please, my fics are much too complicated for me to understand. 
> 
> "Second Son" is for Roarke, who deserves some love, and some really lovely sex. And for Nick, who was once the most annoyingly reticent character I've ever had the pleasure of beating my head against. (I was wrong about this, naturally, he has been surpassed.)
> 
> Enjoy!

_Not quite forty years before…_

He moved lithely, despite the heavy leather armor that hugged his body, belying the weariness that had written itself in the fine lines of his face. Strode, with all the comfortable ease of a predator in a sheepfold through the maze of patchwork tents and hasty lean-tos that had been constructed on the sandy plain.

But, these sheep were the dangerous sort: armed to the teeth, vicious, and mean with the thrill of victory still flooding their veins. Yet neither jeers nor challenges arose to greet him; he walked unaccosted, seemingly oblivious to the men that eyed him warily. It was quite an accomplishment for one with only eight and twenty summers behind him.

The last battle had been won. This war was over, and by midnight, he'd be free of his contract with the warlord who ruled this bedraggled horde of mercenaries, and now this arid little scrap of a land, where traders from the Far South and the West traveled. There was little left to accomplish but to pack what few things had made their way from his bag, roll up his tent, and be off. His final payment jingled softly in its leather pouch hidden deep in one of the larger pouches dangling from his sword belt.

His temporary dwelling wasn't located near any of the others—this not from the arrogant priggishness as some of the men suggested, after imbibing much alcohol, and quietly, but out of consideration and necessity. A sleeping mage, no matter how strong, was never a completely safe companion, as magic had a tendency to lash out in defense of its host. It was said for good reason that if one came across a sleeping mage or a sleeping dragon, one should choose first the dragon to awake.

…A dragon would kill quickly, after all, with a single burst of flame or the deadly sweep of one massive talon. The mage was unlikely to be nearly as kind. A trained battlemage, or so it followed, was even  _less_  likely to be inclined toward leniency.

The other mercenaries kept clear and the mage took no offense; he expected it, rather, from soldiers who'd survived this long.

That matter aside, his small encampment better ensured his privacy. Here, at the edge of the scrubby forest they'd settled near, he could set wards without concern that some hapless infantryman would stumble drunkenly into them and be given the shock of his life. No; anyone headed this way was intent upon wreaking havoc onhis tent, and deserving of anything they received if they attempted to disturb him or his possessions unannounced.

It was for that reason that he paused. His temporary dwelling was alight—from the inside.

Temper to match the fiery hue of his hair began to spark in his gut. But it didn't make him a fool. He guarded well as he made his way forward, sending the subtle tendrils of his power before him.

He paused again when no information was returned to him, and pushed down all his rush of hot anger completely. His visitor was no common ruffian, it seemed. But neither was he or she intent on robbery. A whisper of steel against leather sounded loud to him as he tugged the long dagger he wore from its sheath and gripped it familiarly, just in case. Magic wouldn't stop everything.

"I carry only tidings of peace, mage, be at ease." The voice was feminine, delicate as the magnolia blossoms of these strange Southern lands and as calm as Southern seas. "Peace."

The mage made no response, still testing the air about him. All was indeed at peace…and yet the burr of his homeland clung to the undersides of this stranger's vowels, humming vibrant within the clipped consonants. Intriguing, that was.

A woman. No…a woman who was a little more than merely human, this.

His eyes narrowed, pinpointing her position within his tent. Roarke—for that was the name this Mage bore, when among company—wasn't fool enough to trust a strange woman at her word—plenty of good men had died at the hands of pretty lasses. He had no intention of joining their ranks.

He shifted, circling the tent with the silent stalk of the cuir cat-fiadhaich-the fabled dweller of the jagged Deibh Pigeán Mountains, in the High North. T'was an easy thing to manage, severing one of the ropes that anchored the tent, while blades of wind and ice took the weighted tarp on his command, dropping the heavy cloth on her. A delaying tactic only, but one that gave him advantage without harming either of them.

The light within sputtered and then guttered out; the woman gave a muffled shriek, and struggled with the canvas. Roarke waited patiently, concealed in the shadows of the trees.

She emerged at last, smoothing down her hair. A slender, pale figure in the moonlight, long, silvery tresses loose about her shoulders; a colorless dress cut short like a tunic and worn over slim-cut braes that disappeared into high leather boots. A short sword hung from at her left hip.

Black eyes narrowed, regarding the familiar silhouette she made. The Mage knew those robes—that otherworldly air.

"Yer a long way from yer temple, Priestess," he called, throwing his voice. She turned to face his location, deceptively calm. But her hand settled lightly over the hilt of her blade.

"I act as emissary for the Goddess." She tossed her head peremptorily. "As you must know, Mage. And—I repeat—I come in peace."

He didn't respond for a long moment—he hadn't expected anything different, when he'd recognized her order from her clothing and weapon.

The Moonmother—Thalia was her name, if the bards were to be believed (he'd never really believed they were, names being what they were)—was the God-Queen in the Highlands, a woman-warrior who had allegedly fought and defeated her War-god consort before taking him in marriage. Her followers aspired to similar ideals—they were trained young to be deadly, and used all their many talents to bring about the Goddess's will. Rumor had it that the Goddess would occasionally speak through one, and had been known to defend her priestesses as fiercely as they defended her. A good thing, then, that he had avoided outright violence.

"And wot does yer Lady want with me tha's brought ye so far into another god's territory?" They were fierce, gods were, in defending and expanding their lands, and didn't take lightly invasion.

"It is not something  _I_  may tell you, Mage but something she will impart to you personally."

Expressive rusty-colored eyebrows rose sharply in the dark, angling up unseen. "Ah'll just wait 'ere, then, 'til she deigns tae appear a'fore me, shall Ah?"

"Kind of you, Mage." He wasn't so green as to startle when she looked straight at him, nearly through him, but his heart gave a little leap within his chest. The priestess's voice had altered itself substantially, going smooth and soft; sweet, yet terribly strong in its timbre. Her eyes, too, were changed; now glowing with the sheen of antique gold, fiadhaich's in the dappling moonlight.

Not quite the strangest thing he'd ever seen—no, the rabid minotaur-hybrid a year and a half ago took that distinction—but certainly high on his personal list.

"Ah'll guess, and say yer m'Lady Thalia." There was no point in staying in the shadows now. He stepped away from them, into the clearing. "Ma'am," he added, after a moment. A little respect never came amiss with any God.

"That I am."

"'Course. It figures. Just—no light'nbolts, please," he requested, only half in humor. "'S'it's such a messy way tae die, m'Lady. You understan', Ah'm sure."

"Certainly not, Mage. I've no use for you dead," Thalia replied archly. Roarke blinked at her tone and decided he wasn't at all surprised by her spiritedness. She had defeated Selis singlehandedly, after all, and her consort was a mischievous, clever bastard of a War-god, from all accounts. To say nothing of creating the rock and ice of the Highlands and the creatures that survived there.

"A nice coincidence, tha'. Ah've no use fer death, personally," he quipped, and wondered if he shouldn't shut his mouth now, to continue avoiding a messy death.

Instead, the Goddess chuckled; warm and deep. It was a sensual laugh, unconsciously, innocently so (or perhaps not; she was a goddess); stirring his blood. Politely, he ignored his body's untimely reaction—Roarke had no desire to find himself lacking, abruptly, the part of himself that made him a man because his body didn't understand that the lady in front of it (and more importantly, the goddess's notoriously jealous, protective husband) was not in any way available, and never (ever) would be.

"All the better. I've a task for you, mage."

Any amusement faded from him. Gods bearing tasks were tricky, and dangerous. "And what's tha'?"

She gave him a look Roarke suspected was supposed to be encouraging. "You are to search out children who bear power, particularly those who live in fear. You are to protect these children, house them, teach them. Raise them, as children should be raised."

He choked on his next breath.

"Ye wan' me tae do  _wot_?" he demanded, aghast.

She smiled; the curve of the priestess's lips was fierce in the moonlight. "You heard me fine, mage. I should add that it is your destiny to do this—I'm sure I don't have to tell you how rare it is for mortals to learn what Fate has in store for them."

"Ah'd not 'ave minded the illusion o' a choice, Goddess," he growled, mind whirling. Children—mage children. Gods help him. Mage children coming from abuse and danger and, knowing humans, exploitation. It just kept getting better.

"I know." The smile softened, became almost regretful. "But to do all you must, you need to begin soon.

"In the Northlands, there is a forest. It is rich in magic more ancient even than me—it is an elemental place. In time, it will come to be called after your familiar."

"Ah've no familiar." The highland growl in his voice was very nearly hollow with resignation. It would probably earn him that lightening bolt to clap his hands over his ears and start humming in denial.

"Not yet, no. He will be born soon, mage, in our homeland, less than a league from your brother's home. Purest white, and birthed as the sun slides above the horizon. You will know him, even as he knows you."

"Why?"

An expression of surprise passed lightly over her borrowed features. "Why? Because it is your destiny."

"Tha's not the only reason," black eyes were narrowed and sharp, as shock dulled and he started to  _think_. "Ah'm young yet, a 'alf dozen years oot of mah own training. Mah magic's not settled yet, an' won't fer another decade, a' least."

She scowled, and then sighed. "You are too young, yes. But there are no others in the Highlands now, not with any degree of true power. It's been five an sixty years since the last full-blooded mage has been born to my people; you are the eldest of a…a wave of powerful magic-wielders. Already, several more have come. Few communities have the resources or the…strength of purpose, to raise a mage. And I cannot,  _will not_ , have them destroyed with greed, clumsiness, or bigotry."

"Won'erful. Any other parts o' mah life tha' Ah've nae yet lived ye wish ta share?" he couldn't keep the bite from his tone—Roarke hadn't any desire to know his fate. It led only to pain to know what would be when one wasn't meant to.

"Yes." She paid no mind to his flinch. "Within the forest, there is a lake, as clear and reflective as glass. Beside it, you will build with magic, stone, and wood, a sanctuary for your kind. A place of learning, of safety. A home, for those who need one. Do you understand?"

"Aye," he managed, fighting the faintness from his voice. Children, damaged and power-filled children, and a bloody  _castle_  he'd have to construct to last. "Ah 'ave one question."

"Ask."

"Who did Ah piss off?"


	2. Chapter 2

_Once upon a time, a woman, a Queen, longed for a child. One who would bear her lover's features. Unbeknownst to her, save for in her deepest heart, their time together was to be short. So though she did not think on it, quietly, absently, she yearned._

_And one night, unawares, she conceived. It was the same night he slipped away, never to return to her…_

* * *

_Present_

Deep, where the meager moonlight could not reach, a youth huddled shivering against frigid stone. The cell wasn't large; perhaps ten paces by six, but the lightless gloom of it rendered it airlessly tight. Chains dangling from his wrists jingled quietly as he shifted on the rough-cut granite. His breathing sounded harsh to his own ears, and his heart thundered out a rapid tempo that echoed, it seemed, around the room.

Arran wasn't stupid enough to think he was going to be spared the noose—he'd stolen a purse off a sleigh, from the Empress Dowager herself. Her Mightiness wasn't one to care that he hadn't eaten for two days, and she certainly didn't want to hear that he wasn't strictly her subject to punish, but the Gypsy King's sixth son, the youngest, and subject to his law. Even his Da, if he'd known, wouldn't have been able to save him—the Dowager had no love for the Gypsies, thought them human parasites from the South. She'd have had him hanged anyway and sent his crow-picked body to his people, simply to spite Domhnall.

A rattle from outside brought his head up fast—surely it couldn't already be dawn?—and the door swung in, the flickering light of a torch blinding him after the long hours in the dark. Boot heels clicked against the flags of the floor, and strong hands seized his wrists one after the other, unlocking the manacles.

"'s no'—not dawn yet?" He hated that, even to his ears, it sounded like a whimper.

"Hush, lad. No, it's nae yet dawn. Quietly naow, if you please." The voice was barely more than a thread of sound, accented in the way of this land, and an arm swept around him to yank him to his feet and hustle him out of the cell. His savior turned away from the torch's light before Arran could see his face, and locked the door behind them before secreting the keys away. Another move, and the cloak that was clasped at the man's throat was off and being swirled around his chilled body, its hood shoved low over his face. With barely a pause, Arran's rescuer tugged the Gypsy boy along with him down the long, shadowy hallway.

They met no one in the lowest levels of the Keep, though a few times he was shoved into an alcove while the other man stepped into an intersection to be sure that they would not be surprised by some diligent scullery maid or kitchen boy, and before a quarter-hour had passed, they crept into the Royal Stable.

"Listen tae me, lad," the man whispered, and let him look upon his face for the first time. Scars, faded with time to silvery-pink ridges only slightly raised, ripped their way down the side, bisecting an eyebrow and running parallel with his jaw; thick black hair worn shorter than the norm but still long enough to brush his nape framed the narrow face, sweeping back away from sharp silver eyes. With a gasp, Arran jerked back—his rescuer was the same pitiless bastard who'd handed him over to the two great brutes who'd thrown him into that bloody cell in the first place!

" _You_ —" A hard, narrow-fingered hand pressed very quickly to his mouth, silencing him as fury lit his dark eyes.

"Yes, me. Keep yer voice daown, or t'will be both o' our 'eads, d'you understand?"

Mutely, furiously, he nodded.

"Good. You ken 'ow tae ride, yes?" Another furious nod was the answer. "Good. You'll ride fast as you can, south and east. There's enough supplies tae take you through the Sìon Sìtheán Pass, an' a map and a compass. Your people are—or will be, they're yet a few days out—camped close tae the Pass, in a town called Staireán Sruth. You'll need tae watch fer bandits a'twixt 'ere an' the Pass—they're plentiful, an' they'll be feelin' the winter by naow." As he spoke, he led the horse and the boy from the stables and across the courtyard through the shadows. Burlap sacks muffled the nag's feet, and the sentries had been bribed with gold and a promise of protection to ignore the fugitive.

"Why are you doin' this?" the boy asked, as the man bent to remove the burlap. Anger was being drained away by terror, and a strange sense of awe.

"Many reasons, lad, nae a one of them unselfish. Naow, off you go."

"The—yer cloak," Domhnall's sixth son managed to croak as he was tossed onto the horse's high back, scrabbling to catch at the coarse mane, to find his balance.

"Keep it. You'll need it far more than I," the man replied, and slapped a hand to the horse's rump, sending the beast and its rider abruptly on their way. He watched a moment, a shadow amongst shadows, as they swiftly disappeared into the night, and then turned and slipped back into the Keep.

* * *

The hall was silent as the Second Son bowed before the Empress Dowager. Breathless, courtiers and the ones serving them looked on, vultures not unlike those that haunted graveyards and battlefields, hoping for some scrap of flesh, or simply trapped in the same room as the scavengers, and relieved to know it wasn't them, or theirs. After all, Nicodemus had failed, most grievously.

"My son," she murmured, inaudible to any but those closest, "the last to ever push himself out of my womb. I lost he who was my husband even before your birth, my monster child."

"Yes, Mother," he replied automatically. His face, uncovered and unaverted despite the damages done so long ago to it (there were many who despised that decision, who would have him cover the scars with a patch or half-mask), was as blankly smooth as any sheet of opaque ice.

"I have told you often how your father died, told you with tales of his greatness, and you cannot even slay a child." An exaggeration, certainly, if not an outright untruth, but she didn't appear to notice. Her voice had risen, still soft and sharp, but pitched now to carry the length and breadth of the room.

"Look at your brother! He does not flinch at striking down Our enemies in a timely manner. He is to be feared of his own right, my useless one, not a tool for those stronger. He was born small, delicate, and look what he has grown to. You were a large, greedy child, who damaged me so I could not even bear another. When I beheld you, anomaly that you were, I thought you would not live past the winter."

The large child, instead of living up to his early potential, had grown into a man only slightly above middling height, with a build that could generously be termed lean.

The less generous could say scrawny, and would not easily be proved wrong.

"Yes, Mother."

"You squalled endlessly, never ceased crying of hunger. You were greedy then, and you are greedy now. Instead of working for your keep, you fail me when I ask so very little of you. Though you look a beast, you possess no great strength, no usefulness, my son. Once I hoped you would succeed as your father and brother had—as even your sisters have!—I hoped as you were presented to me, but as I look at you now, you are as weak as you were then."

Nicodemus was silent, his silvery stare directed, as custom demanded, at the ground. She gazed at him with narrowed eyes, her second son, standing tall and straight, so very different than any other person in the Keep. There wasn't a person in the place she'd like to see less.

"Son," she said. She always called him 'son', for there was no doubt he was hers. He looked up, eyes blank of all emotion, hard with the lack. "I know not how he escaped. I do not care, truly. He should not have lived past the moment he was caught. You will bring him back."

"Tae you?" For the first time, a hint of lowborn accent crept into his voice, the result of a nanny picked at random from the lower order of servants without care or consideration.

"To the Keep, that your esteemed brother may succeed where you have failed."

"Tha' is your command?" his gaze was empty of both hostility and warmth. He rarely claimed her with title, for all she did him. She was mother only in that she'd bred and bourn him.

"Yes," she said, "That is my command. But Nicodemus…" malice glittered in dark, chilled eyes, framed by snow-pale lashes, "if you do not succeed, do not bother coming back at all."

The Court erupted with a hundred tiny gasps; to be banished during the winter was death here in the Highlands.

He stared at her, expression unreadable. "As you wish," he replied succinctly, and nodded politely before turning and striding away.


	3. Chapter 3

_Nine months to the day, the Queen birthed the child, a lovely babe, with her lover's raven-black hair and misty eyes. She wept and cursed, for now she was to be forever reminded of an impossible love, when never was she to have again the happiness of it. Mere hours later, a curse, or perhaps it was a gift, was laid upon the child as it lay sleeping in a cradle; a tiny hand lifted and softly pricked, that the babe whimpered in its sleep and a bright crimson bead formed; to sleep thus forever, until the spell could be lifted._

* * *

Tala stood still as his master saddled him, and laid the light packs of necessities across withers and flanks both, though he nearly quivered with anticipation. The dapple-grey was uncommonly tall for his breed, and unfashionably ugly for even a man of Nicodemus's questionable social rank. Nobles rode light, fine-headed palfreys, or deep-chested destriers. Commoners walked, or rode mules. Tala was no dainty deer-legged mount. His head was too large for all his features were refined, neck and chest too thick, his body far too huge—he looked, as the Empress Dowager had once snipped, like a farmer's plow horse, a Gearrán. And indeed, his sire had been, a particularly crafty stallion who'd leapt his own fence and that of the Royal broodmares as well; and been gelded and sold to the ore mines for his impertinence; though not before he'd found for himself a young mare in heat, awaiting the attentions of one of the Royal stallions. Tala, saved from the Keeper of the Lines' overzealous knife by a young groom backed by the Second Son, had inherited his father's build and cleverness, and his dam's speed and willingness to learn. Trained by no hand but Nicodemus's own (not a soul in the Stables would have dared touch the horse, not even to feed him, lest the Stable Master make them pay in blood for it), there wasn't a finer destrier to be had, nor a stronger one.

Nicodemus worked with steady hands, ignoring the stares and whispers of the stable hands around him. He was used to them, and reacting would only bring more stares. There had never been a time in his life that he'd not bourn the attention of both the Court and the servants—he fit into neither class: the Dowager's dog, the doer of whatever deeds she wanted done, and, conflictingly, her son, and brother to the emperor, worthy of respect for that, if nothing else. As a child, they had stared because of his eyes, unnaturally pale, and his hair, dark, when every member of the royal family had hair like the summer's sun, and there wasn't a soul of true Highland birth with hair darker than oak bark, or eyes lighter than deepest twilight.

And yet, no one doubted the fidelity of the Empress, if for no other reason than there had been no man who looked thus in the capital in the time when the lad had been conceived—and that was if they could believe the cold, proud mother of their ruler would condescend to lay with a man of flesh and blood willingly, without the Empire's future at stake.

So, he was, simply and completely, in their minds, a Changeling, and thus a curiosity. As a youth, after the half-fearful, half-hopeful wondering whether he would prove to command faery magic had passed safely without any hint of supernatural powers; they had stared at the ruined part of his face. Scars earned at age fifteen when a  _leóghann_  [huge black and orange-striped cats from the Far East, larger again by a third than the native cuir cat-fiadhaich,and so oddly colored] had been set loose by an enterprising assassin, intending the beast to kill the young Emperor of the Dèan Laighe Leis an Fhuachd, into the extensive menagerie boasted by the fortress capital of Cabhadh-làir.

The assassin had been caught, the leóghann contained, and the tale squashed viciously. And though the people had wondered how the Changeling had acquired such grievous wounds, none asked.

By the time he was truly a man, he had so long been the Dowager's lackey and whipping boy that they stared in morbid curiosity, wondering how many dark deeds his soul must lay claim to—the Dowager was not known, particularly, for leniency, or any great degree of understanding. And really, that wasn't a bad thing, here in the Highlands; a lack of leniency and a certain ruthlessness in the Empire's rulers had been all that kept the people alive and un-enslaved by the various peoples ringing their vast lands at times. But all the same, enforcers of the ruthlessness didn't tend to be popular guests.

Now, they stared because the Second Son, the Changeling, had failed in his duties, though which duty, most didn't know, and might well be going to his death on the command of his mother. Now, a man, he knew better than to give them even the slightest hint of weakness.

When the last of the supplies, a long hunting bow made of pale, pale wood and a quiver full of arrows, were lashed securely to Tala's saddle, Nicodemus led the horse from his stall.

"Nico!" A blonde giant of a man strode across the icy stones of the courtyard, an imperial-looking cloak snapping in the brisk wind. Eyes as dark as molasses flashed with irritation.

"Yer Majesty." Ten years stood between the Emperor and his Changeling brother, and a thousand subtle signals delivered over the years held the chasm wide—Nicodemus could see the man no more as brother than he could stop the moon from setting in the morn, despite the man's familiar use of his name.

"Will you still not call me Declan, then?"

"If you will 't, Emperor Declan," Nicodemus replied civilly, his gloved hand resting easily on Tala's reigns. But the man looked up from the ground at the demand. Few, if any at all, would notice the grey's warm dark eyes show white round the edges.

"Stubborn as ever," the Emperor growled. "Nico, is it true? Mother's ordered you to go after that Gypsy boy?"

"'Tis true."

"Then it's also true she told you not to come back without him?"

There was no reply. But Declan did not require one. "Damn it to hell, Nico, you know she cannot sentence banishment without a sufficient crime. Why did you not come to me?"

"Tae her mind, failure is crime enough, My Lord. I was willin' enough tae commit it."

Deep brown eyes bored into silver, trying to search their depths. "You—you are not accepting this banishment? Nico, have you taken a leave of your senses? Have you not noticed that it is the dead of winter? Is death better than failing her? She is only a woman, for the gods' sake, man—she will not suffer mightily for the continuance of one lad's escape from justice. There is no reason to risk your life for it—"

"There is evera reason. I seek freedom, My Lord. If tha' is all?"

"Wait a moment—what do you mean freedom?"

Again, the younger man was silent, leaving his brother to think what he would. "I would rather keep as much o' the light as possible," he said instead. "If I'm lucky, 'twill nae snow tonight an' obliterate the tracks."

Declan frowned fiercely at Nicodemus, and then sighed. "I suppose I cannot stop you, if it is your intention to fulfill her wishes. But know that you  _can_  come back; you may consider it an order. Don't kill yourself over such a trivial matter."

"Thank you," Nicodemus said gravely, before turning, and mounting, settling with ease in the huge grey's saddle. "Goodbye, My Lord." Without a backward glance, he nudged Tala into a silk-smooth canter, and was gone in moments.

The Emperor of the Lands of Ice shook his head at the retreating back of his younger brother, mindful of the on-lookers, and stalked back into the Keep's main hall.

* * *

_The child grew cold, as with death, as years passed. Briars grew high and strong around him, defending their captive. And while his eyes, sharp as glinting blades, remained open, he slept the sleep of the innocent._

* * *

There had been no snow since before the boy had escaped, and Nicodemus followed the trail his mount had left easily through the snow, Tala's trencher-sized hooves layering on top of them. He rode with careless skill, bringing the grey down to a ground-eating trot now that he was a fair distance from the Fort—asking too much of the horse would only exhaust him. He didn't doubt that either his mother or the Emperor would send others after him, though he didn't know whether they were to ensure his return, or his demise. It mattered little enough to him—he didn't intend to go back, nor did he plan on dying.

He rode until the sun had set, and spent the night sheltered by a stand of boulders. It wasn't an undiscovered shelter—wood had been stockpiled nearby by the Emperor's Rangers for such times. He left it undisturbed, and lit no fire, only removed Tala's saddle and given him a few handfuls of arbhar, the light-weight grain grown in the short months of summer that was perfect for long-distance travel-fare for the horse. After three hours' rest, Nicodemus was up again, and on his way well before dawn. Snow had started to drift steadily down, and the moon's light reflected off the snow already on the ground, making it easy to see. Even fading, the Gypsy's trail was easy to follow.

By morning, his and the boy's tracks both were well-covered. Nicodemus didn't envy the men who would return to the Keep empty-handed; neither his half-brother nor his mother relished being thwarted. He held Tala at a sedate walk, pointed southeast, while white continued to fall silently from the grey sky. Despite it, he was gaining on his quarry—the tracks he found now were only half-filled, even with the snow. They were lighter, barely breaking the hard crust several inches beneath the fresh snow—somehow, the fool lad had lost the horse he'd had, and probably most of his supplies as well. Likely, it had been to the roving bands of rouges that haunted the forests, displaced freemen and runaway serfs; a traveler alone, especially a stripling lad, was prime prey.

"Alright, Tala," he murmured, and at last let the grey break into the trot he'd been asking for the entire last mile. No more than a half-hour passed before the Gypsy boy, a staggering figure in white-dusted dirty-grey, topped by black, appeared before them, slogging through the knee high snow. Horse and rider were only a score of paces away from their quarry, and Nicodemus just about to announce himself, when the lad finally noticed their presence and whirled about, black eyes wide. Even at his distance, Nicodemus could see them going terror-stricken.

"A' ease, lad, I'm not goin' tae hurt you." Tala pulled abreast of the boy, and obediently halted beside him. The lad was shivering so hard he vibrated, and though he wasn't quite blue yet under his dusky golden skin, he certainly wasn't pink-cheeked with health. "Whell, they left you with the cloak, a' least. Did they let you keep aught else?"

"E-enough f-f-food fer t-two d-d-days—i-in m-my pocketsss."

Nicodemus nodded—the lad had run into surprisingly merciful bandits, to keep that much food and the cloak as well. He reached down a gloved hand. "Let's get you tae shelter an' a fire, shall we?" Arran barely hesitated, but reached a shaking hand up, and was tugged onto the huge grey's back, and situated before his two-time rescuer as though he weighed naught at all. Tala snorted at the trembling of this new burden his master was asking him to carry, but accepted, and took up his massive canter eagerly at the slightest tap of Nicodemus' heels. There was another Ranger-stocked shelter not far from here, a shallow cave with a barrier preventing the invasion of animals and lesser demons, kept full of wood and sealed stone containers of grain, heavily salted meat, and skins of water.

Nicodemus slid from Tala's back when they stood outside it, and led the horse in—the cavern was just tall enough to allow the grey to enter, and there was enough space at the back of the cave for him to stand or lie down comfortably, leaving the men the front half of the shelter. There was a natural barrier from the bitter eastern wind in the extending arm of rock that the sanctuary was bearable; all the same, Nicodemus didn't dally in setting a fire to light in the carefully hollowed out fire pit. The lad huddled under his cloak, damp though it was, until the fire was crackling cheerfully, and his slender, agile-looking fingers extended to the warmth offered up by the leaping tongues of flame.

"'Ere, lad, let me have your cloak," Nicodemus said, and sighed at the flash of apprehensive confusion in the Gypsy's bright, black-as-pitch eyes. "You'll get it back when it's dried. 'Til then, you can use the blanket from the sleepin' roll." He took the cloak, spread it out beside the lad near the fire to dry and warm it, and went to where Tala stood patiently, waiting for him to remove saddle and bridle. With quick hands, he had the cinch of the saddle unbuckled, and pulled the whole of it from the grey's back.

"Look through tha', when you've stopped shiverin', get out wot we'll need," Nicodemus said, placing the saddle near the boy, and returning to his horse, to dispense with the bridle. "There should be food in those containers, an' water in the skins. I'll melt snow fer Tala—dinna use wot's there fer 'im." He didn't want so much of the water gone so quickly, or the indication that they'd done more than pause here, if somehow the trackers got this far.

The lad nodded, and drew the blanket close around his shoulders, hunching close to the fire, chafing gently at chilled fingers to speed the warming process.

A piece of stretched leather for any necessary repairs looped over the light circle of pine he'd had crafted expressly for the purpose of creating such a containment device, worked nicely, attached to the headstall, as a makeshift feed-bucket for the horse; Nicodemus scooped out several handfuls from the stone container, after checking the grain for any signs of decay. Leaving the horse to eat, Nicodemus dug a small stiff-bristled brush from one of the saddlebags before returning to Tala's side and brushing away dirt and snow, while he kept an eye on his Gypsy charge, who was beginning to feel mostly human again, if his foray into the saddlebags was an indication.

When he'd finished seeing to Tala's wellbeing, he moved to the mouth of the cave, just inside the mild barriers that had been put up by a contracted hedgewitch from one of the nearby villages—Cabhadh-làir hadn't see a full mage since Roarke had left, in the previous Emperor's time, years before his birth. Declan coped by bringing in teams of weaker magic-crafters to do any warding necessary—to scan what he could see of their surroundings for any that might seek to follow them. The cloud-cover from the night had yet to pass, leaving the light muted and comfortable to Nicodemus' pale eyes, instead of the painful glittering that the bared sun would shoot up from the cold whiteness. No movement drew his gaze, no sounds but those coming from the cavern behind him reached his ears. Nonetheless, he would be alert to any changes.

 _Not yet_ , his brain cautioned quietly, as it had for years.  _You're not free yet. She'll come after you—you've made yourself too useful to dispose of_. That was true; as much as the Dowager hated him, and she did, fiercely, he had been a very useful tool. Royal bastards who wanted to survive made themselves useful in any way they could, and he hadn't relished the thought of catering to the baser appetites of the Court.

"Bu' once we're through the Sìon Sìtheán Pass," he whispered, a promise to himself, "I'm free o' the Dèan Laighe Leis an Fhuachd."

"S-sir? D'ye say somethin'?"

Nicodemus turned, and walked back towards the fire, sinking to the ground a bit away from the boy and folding his legs comfortably. "I said tha' once we're through the Pass, we're out o' the Dèan Laighe Leis an Fhuachd."

A frown beetled his young charge's dark brows. "The wha'? Dee-en Lie-g—wha'?"

"The Dèan Laighe Leis an Fhuachd, lad. 'Land o' Freezin' Cold' in the Old Language. You didna know the country you were in?"

The boy shook his head. "Da called it Deibh Laigh."

Nicodemus nodded. "Aye, that's another name fer it. Have you a name, then? I cannae keep callin' you 'lad' all the time."

"Oh!" Black eyes widened, and blood rushed across golden cheeks. "'s Arran, sir." A slender hand shot from under the blanket.

"Nicodemus," the silver-eyed man replied, grasping the hand, and felt calluses against his own. Whatever was said of them, Gypsies seemed to work hard enough for their living.

The skin was finally getting warm, he noted, and the shaking had stopped. It was safe enough to let the boy sleep, now that the seductive cold had been chased from his bones. He could see the weariness in Arran's eyes. "You should sleep while we've time."

Puzzlement drew Arran's eyebrow's together. "Bu' 't'is no' even midday. An'—an' d'ye mean Ah can come with ye?"

"I'm takin' you back tae your own people, lad. T'is there you'll be safest. An' then I'll continue on. Unless you relish sleepin' on horseback, you should take't now. I'll keep watch."

Within minutes, after a few more half-hearted protests, the youth was sound asleep beside the fire. Tala had finished his grain and stood quiet for the bag to be removed, taken a few long pulls from the melted snow Nicodemus had poured into the rough stone trough against the side of the cave, shallowly hollowed from a rather massive boulder, and apparently followed suit, going into the lock-kneed standing doze that horses favored. With a sigh, he unfolded himself and stood, leaning briefly down to tug the blanket a bit more firmly around Arran. Then he returned to his post by the mouth of the cave, far enough away from the wards to keep them from making his gut twitch and roil and his temples begin to pound in protest. He didn't understand the aversion to magic, even in this weak form—if truly he was a Changling, as most held, or the offspring of a faerie, sired on his mother while she slept, shouldn't he control it himself, and not be made ill and uncomfortable by its presence?

No matter. There couldn't be that much magic in the world. He could certainly avoid great concentrations of it if he needed to.

With a sigh, he settled himself so that he could see as much as the cave's boundaries would allow, while presenting as little a silhouette as possible.


	4. Chapter 4

The Empress Dowager was not a happy woman. As her younger son settled himself to keep watch over the very boy he'd been ordered to bring back to be put to death, she retired to her private chambers, furious that the men she'd sent to insure Nicodemus would do his duty had returned empty-handed, with the sniveling excuse that they had lost Nicodemus in the snow. More furious still that her elder son had attempted to castigate her for her actions—how  _dare_  he insinuate she didn't know how to control the silver-eyed bastard?

How, she'd demanded to know, does one lose a dark-haired man riding a monster of a horse in a world of blank white? The answer she'd gotten had been muffled and inadequate, the leader of the group of men dismissed under a cloud of shame, stripped of his rank, and the extra pay he received.

It had been a hasty move, banishing him, she acknowledged, pouring out two fingers of brandy and sipping the warming liquid. Declan had been right about that much. He was useful, was Nicodemus, even if that use seemed to have been fading over the past months. And he knew things that could never leave the borders of the Dèan Laighe Leis an Fhuachd; secrets of the state that other countries and fiefs would kill, maim, and spend extravagant amounts to obtain. She'd intended that he retrieve the Gypsy rat, and that the guards would then overtake him, even if it appeared he would come back on his own, and bring both back; the Gypsy to the noose, and her unfaithful son to languish in Cabhadh-làir's dungeons until he'd learned his place. Instead, he'd slipped away like smoke, and taken the boy with him.

As when she ever thought of Nicodemus, a burn that had nothing to do with the brandy slid through her—he should never have been born. She had never taken another man besides her husband inside her body. Not…not in truth. The other had been, well, a dream, to try and recapture the warmth that her marriage had afforded her only briefly. He'd come only in sleep, her nameless dream-lover, whispering things that had soothed the wounds her  _esteemed_  husband had opened on her self-worth, bringing her the pleasure that  _he_  never had bothered with. And then her dream had gone, never to return, and her husband had gone off to fight heathens to the East. The Emperor had died there, a death too good for him, from a nick by a poisoned blade, after three days of fevered agony, and her Declan, her eldest child and first son, had become Emperor. And nine months to the day Declan's father left, she gave birth to a child that shouldn't exist. A long, difficult pregnancy that required bed-rest more often than not, and was ended with a birth that had damaged her irreparably and left her bed-ridden for two months after.

The midwife had gasped, she remembered, horrified—there wasn't a man in the capital or in any of the surrounding villages who could lay claim to such coloring, and the Dowager was as fair as the winter sunlight with eyes like coal. The child, when he'd been presented to her, had black hair and eyes that had been grey even at birth; the picture of her dream-lover, a man that existed nowhere but in her own mind

She had not, as her first thought demanded, ordered the child drowned. Instead, a drunkard scullery maid who had lost an infant the day before had been summoned and given the child, and banished to a largely unused wing of the Keep, where she would not see either of them. Nevertheless, they collided often enough that she was reminded that the child lived still, even as the maid she had given the boy to had snatched him back, apologizing profusely. All the while, those eerie silver eyes had watched her solemnly, as blank and knowing as their father's.

And then the monstrous child had been injured protecting Declan, and for the first time, she saw his usefulness. So another first occurred; she sought him out, and found him, the right side of his face obscured by bandages, and his torso wrapped with them from chest to hips, the maid hovering. And she had asked him if he wished to be useful.

Stupid boy, she thought now, and poured another two fingers. He would learn the meaning of her wrath.

* * *

He had let the boy sleep for four hours—not enough to erase the dusky circles beneath his dark eyes, but enough to keep him going, Nicodemus hoped, as he rose to shake Arran awake and douse the fire.

"Come on, lad, we've miles tae cover a'fore the sun sinks. Wake oop, Arran."

"F've more minutes, Da," the boy moaned, curling tighter in the blanket and covering his face with an arm.

"Da?" the man muttered, and shook his shoulder again, "Now. Let's not be wastin' any more of the light."

With more grumbling, Arran climbed stiffly to his feet, while Nicodemus left him to saddle Tala again, and resettle the packs to make room for the lad. Not more than ten minutes had passed before he was leading the gigantic horse past the barriers, wincing slightly at the sickening curl his stomach gave, and the angry pulse at his temples. He didn't pause though, but fitted his foot into a stirrup and swung onto his steed's back, before reaching down to tug Arran on behind him. The sky promised more snow within a day, so Nicodemus didn't worry overmuch about the tracks.

* * *

It took almost five days of swift travel to reach the sparse little village beneath the Pass, and there they were delayed by a blizzard that Nicodemus had been watching build. He rented a room in the inn, and they were trapped there a sennight by the snows that raged on this side of the Deibh Pigeán Mountains. The time was passed with sleep, countless card games, conversation on a broad spectrum of topics, and, for Nicodemus at least, woodcarving. When finally they were on their way, he left behind a tiny wooden menagerie that the innkeeper's wife exclaimed over, and put in the place of pride on the mantel in the common room. On the sixth day, the snow finally stopped, and by the eighth, had settled enough that they could continue through the Sìon Sìtheán Pass. Another night was spent there, on the summit of the pass, and by noon the following day, they found themselves surrounded by thick forest, following a winding dirt road to the village on this side of the Pass. Here, they marveled, it was early spring, with the appropriate warmth and abundance of greenery.

Nicodemus restocked in the village, haggling, as Arran watched in fascination, with narrowed eyes and an increasingly common Highlands accent for arbhar and food for them, as well as asking directions to Staireán Sruth, which turned out to be less than two days away. And a brief contemplation of the sky, judging distance against waning sunlight and the mild threat of rain, Nicodemus elected to continue.

* * *

The last ten miles were taken alternating between a trot and a canter, Tala's strides eating ground effortlessly. The sun was bright, half way through its daily ascent, and the previous evening's threat of rain had burned away. Arran clung tightly to Nicodemus, his arms roped around the older man's waist so tightly that Nicodemus had to occasionally remind him to loosen.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Nicodemus to keep him on the horse, he assured himself, or that he was afraid. But they were going so fast, and Tala's strides were so huge that each made it feel as though he would go flying as the horse shifted beneath him, saddle or no saddle, and he wasn't the rider his companion had proved to be.

But the speed made up for the discomfort, and by midmorning, they were in Staireán Sruth. One of the few people remaining in the village proper, after goggling at Nicodemus for a good bit, directed them to 'Alasdair's house, jist up th' way there, aboout two an' a 'alf miles north.' Nicodemus thanked the old man, and mounted up again, pulling the Gypsy up behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

_Many years, the child, now grown, had slept. And somewhere, far beyond the boundaries of the kingdom, lived the one who could break his curse._

* * *

"Lass, ye've oot done yerself wit' this," Roarke praised, kissing Rapunzel on the cheek in greeting, and taking his goddaughter, little Iona, from her. Around them, dozens of people milled, talking and laughing.

The child giggled, "Me too, Grandda Roc, me too!" Obligingly, he pressed a kiss to her cheek as well. Tiny fingers, likely sticky, tugged at his hair, disrupting the bindings that held the long red fall of it from his face, but it mattered little, and he hugged her close.

"An' 'ow's mah little lass? Gods above, ye an' yer brother 're gitting big, aren't ye? Soon Ah'll no' be able tae do this," he warned, tossing her up slightly, and catching her tight while she shrieked with terrified excitement. "An' where is yer brother, lassy? Wot've ye done wit' 'im?"

"He's with Da," she informed him, and wriggled to get down. "I'll get him, Grandda Roc, don' move a hinch."

"Tha'd be 'inch', lass," he murmured, as she pelted off into the crowd of villagers, Gypsies, and the attendants that the Heir of Seòbhrach Rubha and his Consort had brought with them. He turned back to her mother, who smiled brilliantly at him, still as lovely as ever. "Mah gods, Rapunzel, she cannot be six already? An' the babe near-aboot five months old naow. Ye an' Dór make me feel old, lass."

The slim, long-limbed beauty laughed, a silver-bell sound. "You'll live to see your great god-children, Roarke, I have no doubt of that." Blue eyes twinkled and danced. "Listen, Dórainn was thinking of asking you your opinion on a separate workshop—"

They both fell silent as the subtle sheen of magic shimmered against their skin, as the wards let someone through. She frowned abruptly, her pale eyebrows beetling.

"Rapunzel, everyone tha's coming—are they 'ere?" Black eyes had metamorphosed from laughing and warm to alert and none-too-friendly.

"Ye- _es_ ," she said hesitantly, looking around, "I think so. I don't know who could—"

Across the yard, Rapunzel's doting husband, known to most only as the Demon Mage, looked up from his children, and met his mage-master's black-as-pitch eyes, before stooping to send the twins back to their mother. Both men started to slide through the crowd, heading for the road that led to the cottage.

"Who do you think?" Dórainn, tall and slim and a master mage of his own right, inquired. They were isolated from the majority of the far-flung community of magic-crafters. Visitors this far North tended to be young and ambitious, intent on challenging others for the position and power winning would afford them in some circles. And with so many visitors, so many among them children, neither mage had the patience to cater to some young buck with aspirations to greatness.

"Ah'm nae sure—there was magic there, sure enough, but none tha' Ah've encountered. Which could mean nothin'. But t'was a bit tae much loike yers fer comfort, tho', if ye ken wot Ah mean—"

"Yes," the dark-haired mage replied. Power, just a hint, was beginning to radiate from him. His face, impassive, belied the stirrings of anger in his silver eyes. "In light of my promise to Rapunzel about not dueling, I think we'll dispense of any such formalities."

"Ah, laddy, ye do mah heart gud, tha' ye do." Roarke grinned at him—the lad was a son to him, as near and dear to his heart as any of his own flesh and blood could be. Nearer, maybe. It warmed him as little else could to see that the boy he'd picked up from the sooty ground had met and acceded the potential he had originally conceived, and made himself a man. A man, moreover, with the strength to protect what was his, and the will to do so.

Dórainn flicked a silver-eyed glance at his mentor. "You are a horrible influence," he stated unequivocally, "And you should be ashamed of yourself. What if I didn't know better than to listen to you?"

"Dór, mah lad, ye've no' been listenin' tae me since yer sixteenth summer. Ah've no' worried aboout corruptin' ye since then."

"That's not as reassuring as it should sound," his student muttered as they rounded the curve in the path, and were met with a sight that had them both narrowing their eyes not in warning, but in concern. No battlemage stood before them, really to fling curses, or even a hedgewitch with delusions of grandeur. Instead, a gigantic horse stood shivering and wild-eyed over two figures, one crumpled on the ground, the other bent over him.

"What's the matter?" the younger mage called, as they both came striding forward, wary of deception, but willing to render aid nonetheless. The second boy—and he was a lad, very little more, Roarke thought, looked like a younger, slimmer Domhnall Gypsyking, greyfaced and stuttering. Dórainn started questioning the boy, searching for a reason his companion might have fallen, and pushing calming energy towards the trembling destrier.

The man on the ground, though... Roarke's dark eyes narrowed as he crouched beside him to get a better look, his fingers automatically searching the man's neck for a pulse. There it pulsed, strong, if rather quick.

"Alasdair," his student's alias slid as easy as honey from his tongue as the red-headed mage looked up from the fallen man, "Lad, take a look a' 'im. 'E's damn near yer double." There were differences, of course, in the stranger's face; for one, he was younger. And, of course, the vicious-looking scars that marred the one side, clipping one dark eyebrow and ripping down along his jaw-line.

For another, it drew him, as Dórainn's never could have. He frowned.

"What's the matter with him?" Dórainn couldn't take knowledge from the boy that the lad didn't have in the first place.

"Ah'm no' sure," Roarke replied, and probed lightly with his magic; the man's body convulsed in response, his eyes, moonstone grey and glazed with shock, flying open as his back bowed. Roarke halted the flow of magic immediately.

"Ah," the master-mage said, intrigued, leaving his hand resting on the stranger's bare neck as the grey-eyed man went limp again, and bringing the second up to press to the marked flesh of his face. Now, alert to it, he could feel the slow, very subtle flow of magic fleeing the man's body into his. Were he to pull away, the man would be in considerable discomfort.

"That is a binding," Dórainn said slowly, "a strong one. But I didn't see what kind."

"Magic," Roarke replied absently, and earned a sardonic stare from his old student. "'Tis a bindin' on  _his_  magic. He cannae give or take ana t'all. Yer wards must've knocked 'im clear off 'is horse."

"Why would…" Dórainn didn't finish the question—he was the last person to question why some people did the things they did unto others. Besides, there would be no way of knowing why his magic had been bound until the stranger woke and told his tale.

"'Elp me lift 'im, Alasdair, will ye? Ah'm pullin' the energy from yer wards off 'im-Ah cannae completely lose contact wit' 'is skin, or 'e'll be oout a gud while longer." So saying, he freed the second hand.

"Certainly. Lad," the dark-locked mage turned to the hovering boy. "Can you bring the horse? I've a pasture you can put him in once he's untacked." Turning back, Dórainn eased his hand under the fallen man's back, while Roarke scooped up his legs with his unoccupied hand. A heave and jiggle later, Dórainn's look-alike lay in Roarke's arms, his forehead resting against the side of the red-head's neck, and a slim wrist carefully trapped in the mage's long fingers.

"Alright?"

"Aye," Roarke replied, standing. "Doesna' weight verra much, considerin' 'ow long 'e is."


	6. Chapter 6

Nicodemus woke to the faintly nauseating floating sensation and lingering weakness found most commonly in the terminally ill, and the feel of a calloused thumb brushing across the pulse in his wrist, forth, and back, and forth and back again. He was…horizontal, and apparently in a bed of some sort, as there was cool, soft fabric beneath his bare back. The sound of many voices hummed not too far away, some lifted in laughter, but not in the room. Fingers that seemed burning-hot loosely caged his left hand, and the thumb was still stroking over his pulse.

"Welcome back tae the world o' the livin'," a deep, lilting voice drawled from his left, the accent thick and indicating one of the villages even farther north than Cabhadh-làir. How, by the love of the gods, had he ended up so far to the north that even the Common Tongue was laced with Gàidhlig? He'd been through the Sìon Sìtheán Pass, and in Staireán Sruth…

Cautiously, he opened his eyes, not entirely sure what to expect.

The highlander that sat beside his bed, as he'd expected, with a shock of hair like bloodied fire, bound back in a tail. The eyes that met his were coal black, and filled with vaguely predatory amusement. The room around him was spare and clean, golden sunlight pouring in through a glass-filled casement.

"In case yer wonderin', yer not in the 'Ighlands. Ye happen tae be lyin' in the Demon Mage's guest-bed, aboout five miles northeast o' Staireán Sruth." He paused a beat, as though to let Nicodemus assimilate, then continued.

"The lad, Arran, ye'll be pleased tae ken, 'as been returned tae the bosom o' 'is family. He wouldna give oop sae much as yer name. 'Is Da, tha'd be Domhnall Gypsyking, wants tae thank ye personally. Oh, an' yer horse's 'appy as a clam, oout in the pasture wit' the other 'orses, an' a stag."

"Wot's a clam?" Nicodemus asked blearily, after a long minute, wondering if the bed was actually swaying, or if it was him.

"Wee animal tha' lives in a shell, daown South. Lot loike oysters, but smaller an' ye eat 'em cooked."

There was a lengthy pause, filled with considering silence. "Laddy, ye've a burr on ye braw as an icicle, an' yer 'orse cannae be anathing but o' Gearrán blood. But damn me if'n ye came wearin' anathin' but that o' a noble's on yer back, an' yer blades are tae gud no' tae be o' money." Black eyes had been wiped of amusement, were now reflected the flat solidity of slate in an otherwise seemingly reasonable face.

"You're sayin' wot, precisely?" Nicodemus inquired, eyes icing over. He pushed himself up one-handed, ignoring the room-spinning nausea, and tugged at the wrist that was still being held captive. The other man refused to relinquish it, retaining it without once applying additional pressure. The disturbing back and forth sweep continued, standing the fine hairs at his nape on-end.

"Ah'm sayin' tha' Ah'll no' stand fer one o' the Empress's dogs anawhere near me or mine. If'n ye've been sent 'ere wit' a purpose, ye leave the way ye came in, sans ana ability tae speak o' wot ye've seen."

"Fascinatin'," Nicodemus bit out, and tugged again.

"Keep pullin', an' Ah'll let ye go. And every ounce o' magic in this 'ouse will crush ye intae tha' bed. Ah'm no' quite done yet."

" _I_  am," he snarled back, but refrained from yanking at his imprisoned wrist. Even now, he could feel the magic pressing at him.

"I've naught tae do wit' 'er, sae "ye an' yers" 're safe from me, ye bloody bastard—" He cut himself off midstream, closing his eyes tight for a moment and tried to force air in and out of his lungs until he could chain down the beast that was his anger again. This was not how he acted; not how he dealt with obstacles.

It wasn't often at all he lost control of his emotions.

"Verra nice temper ye've there, lad," that lilting voice drawled tauntingly. "Quite impressive. Did ye know yer burr deepens when yer angry?"

Grey eyes snapped open, flashing ire. "Go tae hell."

"No' yet, Ah willnae. 'ave ye a name?" the faintly mocking baritone of his voice was matched with an incongruently charming smile

"I see nae reason tae give tae you." A day ago, he could have truthfully sworn that there wasn't a person or thing that could get under his skin. It infuriated him all the further that he could summon none of his hard-won control to aid him now against this…words failed, he thought, gut churning with anger, to accurately describe this sodding  _arse_.

"Do not antagonize the guest. Rapunzel will have both our hides." Clipped and brisk as a healer, the words snapped out from the doorway. Nicodemus wrenched his head around—why hadn't he heard the second man?—and stared into his own eyes.

Roarke watched the nameless young man's face as he took in Dórainn. Silver eyes widened as they met silver eyes, high boned cheeks, not quite so harsh as the Demon Mage's, leeched of what little color anger had put there. He didn't do anything as obvious as flinch back, but he stared as though he'd seen a ghost, every muscle in his body tensing. Dórainn, Roarke knew, was considering the younger man just as carefully, weighing what little he knew. Beneath his fingers, the man's heart thundered.

"Whell, naow, if we're tae do this civilized, we'll need yer name, laddy-boy." Roarke wondered what the little hellcat was thinking, that his eyes had narrowed, the whole of what seemed considerable concentration focused fully on Dórainn.

"Nicodemus," he replied distantly, attention still on his doppelganger, chilly blankness slipping effortlessly into his features.

"Ah ken only o' one Nicodemus from the north, an' word's reached even me tha' the Empress 'ad 'erself a Changeling son," the fire-haired mage felt the skipped beat in Nicodemus's wrist, and his eyes finally tore away from Dórainn. If suspicion and intense irritation hadn't been running in his bloodstream, Roarke would have been pleased by the evidence that the man was flesh and blood, not the ice sculpture he could take the appearance of. "Ah thought ye said tha' ye 'ad naught tae do wit' 'er, Nicodemus Secondson."

"I was banished af'er Arran escaped from the dungeons beneath the Keep. I 'ave naught at t'all tae do wit' the Empress Dowager, or Cabhadh-làir, naow," Nicodemus stated, cool eyes daring Roarke to accuse him again of dishonesty. "T'was nae always so, but 'tis naow."

A single eyebrow hitched up, returning the challenge.

"If the two of you would be so kind as to call a ceasefire while there are innocent bystanders," Dórainn said, his flat tone failing to hide his amusement from his teacher.

"Lad, ye're ruinin' mah fun," Roarke griped, but subsided to return his gaze to his charge.

Nicodemus was looking increasingly pale, his breathing beginning to become labored. Both mages frowned, and Dórainn came further into the room.

"Nicodemus, are you aware that you have a binding on your magic?" he inquired, careful to curb his natural emission of magical energy.

"I—wot? Wait, I—who're you?" His head was beginning to pound again, his stomach curling uncomfortably. Confusion, never a fond emotion, swam gleefully in his veins.

"Tha's Alasdair. Ye'd loikely ken 'im as the Demon Mage, if'n ye ken 'im. Ah'm Roarke. Ye should lie back naow, Ah think."

A hard hand went to his shoulder, levering him down against the pillows, even as he tried to think.  _Gods above;_ that _'s Roarke?—But how—_

"Nasty bindin', tha' un. Bluidy thing's adjustin' tae me. Who put this on ye, lad, an' wot'd ye do tae deserve't?"

"I dinna—" his eyes widened at Roarke started shedding his outer robe one-handed, the other still locked around his wrist. "Wot're ye doing?" Nicodemus croaked.

"Savin' yer life, boy-o. Dinna fuss, lad, Ah'm nae takin' advantage o' ye. Ah prefer mah bedmates hale an' 'ealthy. An' conscentin'." He was free of the outer robe, and was tugging off the lightweight shirt beneath, somehow managing to keep contact with his wrist the entire time. A few quick flicks of his fingers had his bootlaces loosening, and he toed off his boots.

"Naow, dinna panic, will ye, Nick, an' le's be quick 'boout it." Roarke didn't wait for permission before sliding under the sheet, nudging him over. But it didn't really matter, as his mind was starting to drift away on another wave of pain. Darkness formed a ring 'round Roarke's face, consuming more of his vision in each passing second, as the voices of the two men became mangled and distorted, and hard arms banded around his ribs, hauling at him. His body seemed disjointed from his mind, and the jostling it was subjected to was barely noted before he let go.


	7. Chapter 7

"Wake oop, lad, ye've been asleep long enough naow. Come on, Nick, time tae open yer eyes." It was the third day since Nicodemus's arrival. Rapunzel's annual party had drawn to a conclusion the evening before, and most of the guests had vacated for their respective homes by the morning. By now, only Roarke and Nick himself remained, and the second was conscious only briefly at infrequent intervals, with a lack of awareness that was beginning to worry his self-proclaimed healers—though at one point, he had asked about his horse, which they'd taken as a good sign.

He woke, with great reluctance, to the familiarity of a Highlander's lilt. He felt ill still, head twinging maliciously, a twisting ache in his belly, heavy weariness weighting his limbs like lead. He was warm, though, and he was never one to give up warmth without a compelling reason. All too often, his fires went untended, and his wood-basket empty. He didn't want to leave it now to cater to his mother's whims, or put up with the spoiled Court darlings. He might have mumbled something to that effect.

"Lad, Ah keep tellin' ye, yer no' in the 'Ighlands anamore. Naow open those bonny eyes o' yers, Nick, an' let me see tha' yer lucid."

Nick. No one called him Nick, not ever. And only Declan had ever dared call him by the despised shortname 'Nico'.

Also, his pillow, the one he'd been burying himself deeper in, with its scent of various herbs, old books, and the slight spiciness that was clean male, was unnaturally firm, and decidedly warm for a pillow. It seemed to be breathing, and had the smooth silkiness of skin.

"Wot are you doing wit' me in this bed?"

Roarke grinned at the ice that had crept into the younger man's sleep-thick voice, concern giving way to amusement. Awake, Nicodemus was as prickly as a  _cuir piseag_ , a kind of small wildcat notorious for its capricious moods and wicked claws. Asleep, as he had been for the several hours since the last time he'd been roused, he was as tactile and touch-oriented as a particularly friendly housecat. The moment he'd slipped from unconsciousness into the true sleep his body craved in an attempt to restore itself to previous levels of energy and strength, he'd wrapped himself around the mage like a vine, his dark head nuzzled into the hollow just below Roarke's shoulder.

"Thought you said you preferred yer partners awake 'n' consentin'," he mumbled, without relinquishing the heat Roarke emitted. Gods help him, he didn't even have the strength to move away from a man he wanted to despise.

"An' so Ah do. Ah've done no' a thing tae ye, just lyin' 'ere beside ye. T'was ye who was doin' the doin', so tae speak. Besides, ye an' Ah both are still wearin' pants, are we not?" The constant necessity of contact between the two of them, that his magic would siphon away the magic that assaulted Nick and absorb it, was by turns irritating and amusing to Roarke, and always came with it the niggling warmth of desire.

"Hmph," came Nicodemus's response. He was too tired to decipher the social connotations of such an action, even unconscious, so he didn't, but simply closed his eyes again.

"Ah-ah, Nick, dinna go back tae sleep. Ye need tae be awake fer a bit, so we kin examine tha' bindin' on ye."

"Naeone calls me tha'," he muttered into the mage's throat. How could a man so lean emit so much heat? How could the heat be so appealing, in this form?

"Does tha' mean they shouldn't, or only tha' they dinna?"

"The secon', I s'pose." His eyelids fluttered shut again, it was a struggle to force them open a second time. "Emperor called me Nico, bu' I hated tha' shortname."

"Ah dinna blame ye. Ye've nae the demeanor fer a Nico, 'ave ye. Yer no'…fluffy enough fer't. Nick's the better." He knew better than to let Nicodemus stop talking—the moment he did, sleep would take him again, and it would be hours more before he could be woken. He wanted to pour some soup down his patient's throat as well, if he could manage it.

" _Fluffy?_ "

"Aye. Ye're nae tha' pretentious, nor useless. Blind, is he, yer brother?" Roarke certainly wasn't—this man had cool efficiency scrawled across him like notes in a book's margins. Not a court favor-chaser, nor a toy to be played with, as 'Nico' none-so-subtly implied, not this one.

"Half-brother. Nae, he's nae blind. But 'e doesna bother 'imself tae see the servants."

"True, then, tha' yer mother 'ad ye doin' her dirty work." Nothing else would land the Empress' second son the title of servant.

Nicodemus stirred. What was he doing, spilling this much of himself out? "Aye."

Recognizing withdrawal for what it was, Roarke let the subject lie. "Can ye sit oop, d'ye think?"

With enough effort as to disgust him, and the mage's help, he managed a sitting position, with his back to the mage's chest.

Trying not to shift uncomfortably—he didn't retain such close contact with anyone, male or female, for so long—he asked, "Sae what happens naow?"

"Naow Alasdair comes in—" he waved a hand at the door, which opened mere seconds later, "an' looks at yer aura fer more details as tae the bindin' on ye, while Ah absorb the magic yer body cannae handle."

"Ah." He felt knocked askew, unsure of their motivations, or their intentions. It wasn't a feeling he relished—he'd been too long in the hostile environment that was Cabhadh-làir's court, where everyone had an agenda of their own, and life could be treacherous, especially when one was labeled a bastard, as 'Changeling' implied, unofficial or no. But he trusted these two men—a surprise, and great irritation—as much as he trusted anyone. It only contributed to his intense sense of discomfort.

The mage, Alasdair, the one with his features, entered with a silent suddenness that had him flinching back, fingers twitching for the want of his dagger's hilt—not to use, only to have the familiar weight against his palm. But they'd removed it; it hung in its scabbard over the back of the chair in the corner, along with his boot knife, overtunic, and lighter undershirt. His boots sat on the floor beside his chair, soldiers patiently awaiting commands. Around him, Roarke's arms tightened slightly, and settled him.

"How are you feeling?" Alasdair inquired. His voice was deep, far more so than Nick's, or even Roarke's, and gravelly, as grave as the shifting of the Mountains themselves. He appeared reassuringly dangerous, as though the gods had decided to give others fair warning—" _fool with this man at your own risk!_ " Nick appreciated the warning, unnecessary as it was.

"Tired, mos'ly. M' 'ead an' stomach 'urt." It should not be so deceptively comforting to be leaning back into the mage's chest, to feel his arm curl around his waist. It should not make him feel safe, it should make him as nervy as a cat in the kennels, and twice as angry. He didn't like the man, certainly didn't like the lack of control the man seemed to bring out in him.

"Those are your usual reactions to contact with magic?"

"Yes, tho' it's never been sae strong."

"Ah doubt ye've eva run intae a master mage's wards full-tilt a'fore, either," Roarke put in, his breath stirring the fine hair at the base of Nicodemus's neck, the words vibrating through the younger man.

Control, a habit born of long years, prevented him from shuddering outright with the oddness of the feeling, but it couldn't keep his breath from hitching, or his pulse from spiking.

"As Roarke says. I think we'll find that the increased intensity of the reaction is due to the increase in magic."

"An' the fatigue? I've nae 'ad tha' a'fore." Never in his life had he been so utterly weary, or slept so long. Three or four hours of sleep were usually enough to hold him, even when his day stretched into the plural, and when he did sleep longer, it was restlessly.

"Your body is trying to support the bind, which is using all of your available energy. Until the binding is undone, or you move sufficiently away from all magic, you'll sleep long and deeply. Undoing it will be complicated, as it is particularly strong, and locked to your own magic."

Nicodemus frowned. "I dinna 'ave ana. Magic, tha' is. I didna…do anathing as a child, not like a magicked child would. I still cannae."

"Then this bind has been on you for a very long time, likely since birth, and you've been isolated from any strong magics. You have magic, though I can't tell you how much."

"Enough tae 'elp run tha' bind, and be bound besides," Roarke commented. "I dinna know if yer a full mage, lad, but yer no' a hedgewitch, tha's fer sure."

"I dinna understand why, tho'. M'mother's wanted a mage ever since you left the Highlands, an' she's the only one I can think o' who would have the power or inclination to find a mage to do't. Why would she keep 't hidden?"

"It is conceivable," Alasdair said, filling the ringing silence that followed that remark, "that it was a foreign entity's doing; a rival fief, a rebel leader, the leaders of another country. Your mother may also have caught the eye of a malicious being, a demon, or something of the sort. There are several possibilities. I am less concerned with that, in the face of the medical difficulties the bind creates. While you're up, I should like to take a look at it."

* * *

Roarke heard his oldest student explain himself, and murmured reassurance when Nicodemus twitched with discomfort and wariness. But his mind still picked over the younger man's words, even as he motioned for Dórainn to finish up when the man in his arms started drooping against him, his head beginning to fall limply back. Or rather, he contemplated his own reaction to the words.

The mage was many things; warrior, scholar, teacher, foster-parent to children in various stages of youth and adulthood. He was patient, though action suited him best, and while quick to irritation, much was required to drive him to true anger. He could be as cold and calculating and ruthless as was necessary, but cruel he was not, and cruelty wasn't something he would stand for in his companions. It was one of the reasons he lived outside of society, and left his home but rarely now.

Still, he wasn't on a quixotic quest to put to rights every unjust deed, or save every child who'd ever been a victim. Perhaps once, more-so. But it was a wearying, depressing task that all too often ended badly. There were only so many waifs and strays he could rescue, and he wasn't fool enough to believe otherwise.

So while he was perfectly familiar with the burn of anger in his belly—no son should have cause to suspect first and last his own mother, and what's more, likely be proven correct—he inwardly frowned. No waif this, but a man full-grown, quite capable of protecting himself. He couldn't simply whisk Nick away from whatever troubles faced him, not like he could with an unwanted or battered child.

He observed as Dórainn rose to fetch some of the broth Rapunzel had on the fire for her unexpected houseguest—she'd been in twice while Nick slept, to look upon him—and then Roarke held the bowl for Nicodemus, whose strength had slipped away as sleep loomed, and finally took him.

"You cannot rescue this one, Roarke," Dórainn said sternly, as he took the half-empty bowl and fixed his mage-guide with a stare to match his voice. "He's past the age where he can be spirited away and given a new life. He'll have to live this one."

"Ah ken, Dór. Dinna fret, tha' Ah ken." He shifted the sleeping weight of the man, and leaned back against the high headboard, let the man he held dear as a son look into his eyes and take what comfort he could find in the turmoil there. What, he wondered wryly, would Dórainn say if he knew his mage master didn't merely wish to save the man, but bed him too?

Dórainn turned away, unconvinced, and stalked out to return the bowl to its proper place, emptying it and cleaning it with an almost unconscious flick of magic. It was evening, with the sun dropped below the horizon. With a sigh, he turned from the matters he could not do anything about, and went to do something he could. His wife was putting their children to bed; he joined her, dropping kisses on the twin's foreheads, walking their third child as he squirmed and hiccupped unhappily, protesting the cutting of his first incisor. From outside, there were the sounds of the horses settling in their field, and the rustling of demons and other nocturnal creatures.


	8. Chapter 8

Morning came, and with it, a meeting of war. So to speak.

Books littered the large main room of the cottage, mugs of tea grown cold had been set aside. A sketch of the top layer of Nick's bind—a vaguely threatening-looking circle with what seemed a jumble of knots along the edges—took pride of place on the covered table, and Nicodemus sat uncomfortably on Roarke's lap, bare back pressed to the mage's bared chest, and another tome lay across his thighs, that they both might search for anything that seemed it might help. Rapunzel, Alasdair's wife, had introduced herself with a broad smile while he blinked rather blearily, and then her children, who seemed far too…too everything, really, to his inexperienced eyes—too active, too talkative, too perceptive, too much a mix of their parents, with their father's disturbing coloring. They brought questions to his mind that had no place in this house—did those adorable little children, for example, have a full-grown half-brother? Had their father, by chance, traveled to the Highlands some thirty-odd years before?

But never once did Rapunzel's gaze waver as she looked at him, and no one said a thing. Not long after, she packed a lunch, and took the children with her to visit friends in the village, enlisting the help of Tam, the red-blonde youth who was Alasdair's magicless apprentice, leaving both mages and their patient to their work.

Nevertheless, it was rather fascinating, watching as the two master-mages put their minds to a common task, jotting notes in a code both seemed familiar with, uttering short half-statements, only for the other to answer, completely in tune. He felt weak, weary (though he knew he was to stay awake it he could help it), and very useless, but it was almost worth it, simply to watch the display of integral trust.

And then, suddenly, as the sun began its descent, without any more of a sign that they had found something than a brief consultation conducted in fragmented sentences and abortive hand gestures, Alasdair turned his grey eyes on Nick, and Roarke's grip tightened slightly, bringing his attention back with a snap.

"What?" He fought the need to squirm away, to remove himself to his usual distance. Nicodemus rarely touched, and when he did, they were brief and insubstantial; wisps of sensation, no more. 'Nick', however, whoever he was, did. 'Nick' was never out of contact with the fire-haired mage, never more than an arm's reach away, and helpless without the touch.

"We can git rid o' the top layer naow, if'n ye loike." Roarke's breath ghosted past his ear, raising gooseflesh down his back, despite the relative warmth of the cabin. "T'will relieve some o' the pain, an' ye'll loikely be able tae move around fer a bit wit'oout me. Bu' ye'll sleep more, an' t'willna be comfortable."

He agreed without hesitation. The mages exchanged speaking glances, and Nicodemus felt as Roarke shrugged.

Most of an hour later, he finally stirred, his eyes fluttering back open, feeling as though Tala had trampled him. A cup was lifted to his lips.

"'ere ye are, Nick. Drink, naow, there's a lad. T'was a bit rougher on ye than we thought'd be."

"A bit, you say?" he managed, and drank, before he choked and sputtered on the fiery brew.

"Easy there," Roarke's voice was affronted. "Tha's nae somethin' tae be wastin'."

"Wh-whiskey," Nick choked out, still struggling with the unexpected burn of harsh liquor, tears pricking the corners of his eyes.  _Gods!_  thought he, the stuff was virulent enough to put a shine on coal!

"Put color back in yer cheeks, tho', an' yer eyes're open, are they no'?"

"Why don't we try this, instead," Alasdair gracefully inserted a mug of gently steaming liquid, taking the cup of whiskey from his mage-master's hand.

He drank almost half of the stuff—it was like no tea he'd ever encountered before, and neither mage offered an explanation—before exhaustion took over again, and he slip-slid back into senselessness.

* * *

"Needs tae eat more," Roarke muttered, when he was asleep. A long finger ran down the line of Nicodemus's ribs, feeling the bumps of bone beneath warm, taut skin.

Oddly discomforted, Dórainn said nothing, not a blink to disturb his passively neutral expression. It was a strangely tender moment between his mage guide and the sleeping man, no sexual, exactly, but he felt incongruously like a voyeur, or an eavesdropping child watching his father with a lover. And he wasn't quite sure what he thought about that, yet.

"You realize that the removal of the top layer is only going to concentrate the power among the other layers," he finally said, to break the silence that was growing increasingly uncomfortable. "And there are at least two more layers devoted solely to rejecting outside magic. The gods alone know how many are beneath that."

"Aye, Ah ken, lad. Ah've been thinkin' Ah'd take 'im with me when Ah go back tae the Woods. Less tha' can be 'urt, if somethin' goes a bit wrong. Maybe Ah'll send Allaidh, Móra, an' Kenna tae ye fer a couple o' months." His two young apprentices, recently pulled from the streets of cities to the South and to the West, magelings both, and the daughter of one of his oldest students, entrusted to his care after her mother's death. "An' Ghada, m'…" He paused, considering. "House-keeper, Ah suppose she'd want tae be called." The Tamerine woman was no less than a blessing, to his way of thinking; how she managed to combat the dust his forest home attracted or any of the the other myriad things she had taken over the doing of, he knew not, but he greatly suspected she was more than the mere Crafter she claimed. "Ah dinna think ye've met Allaidh or Ghada yet."

"I'll take them, regardless," Dórainn promised. "How long do you think it will take to get the bind off?" There wasn't a doubt in his mind that his master could do it.

"Ah dinna ken. Per'aps a month, per'aps six. Ah'm honestly more worried aboout 'is magic when i's off. 'E's the oldest bluidy late-born mage Ah've eva 'eard o'."

"You'll call me," Dórainn growled, a demand rather than a question, "If you need me."

"Ah will, aye." A crooked grin tugged at the red-head's mouth. "Worried fer me, laddy?"

"No more than usual," his student replied promptly, hiding what real concern he might have felt behind the vein of impertinence Roarke had been quietly encouraging since the day they met—far more comfortable for them both, this way.

Nicodemus stirred then, drawing their attention back as the man shifted, mumbling beneath his breath. Roarke winced slightly as Nick's weight became abruptly ungainly and painful, and rearranged him to their mutual satisfaction, his dark head resting in the curve where Roarke's shoulder met his neck, face turned against his throat, hands lying limply in his lap, one crossing in front of the mage's steadying arm.

"'e doesna appreciate the invasion o' 'is space," Roarke observed, with a typically sudden change in topics.

"He's hardly awake enough to complain of it," Dórainn felt compelled to point out.

"Aye, tha's true. Bu' Ah cannae think tha' 'e's comfortable with others touchin' 'im, or livin' in particularly close quarters wit' 'im. 'S a bit strange fer a 'ighlander, even one from Cabhadh-làir, tae be touch-shy."

"That's odd?" Roarke had never seemed a particularly touch-oriented person, though he did his share of social contact—a hand to the shoulder or back, perhaps a touch to the hand or arm to make a point, but never anything more than the conservative mid-Northerners were comfortable with. Nor more than a battered child could stand.

"Aye, a bit. Ceremonies, an' things, all 'ave touchin' involved—almost always a kiss tae the fore'ead. Friends an' family are embraced upon first sight, regardless o' reason fer meetin'. I's…in the Dèan Laighe Leis an Fhuachd, ye hug an' kiss yer loved ones gudbye evra time ye or they leave, even fer a day. An' if they come back, ye hug an' kiss 'em welcome again. So much can go wrong when t'is so cold an' empty, an' people've been known tae disappear, neva tae be seen 'r heard from agin. Even those wit'oout families are greeted familiarly, 'cause they're someone's child, or sibling. Sae, t'is a bit strange."

"Could he simply be uncomfortable with being in the same bed as another man?"

"T'is possible, Ah suppose." But really, he doubted it. Unless Nick was as oblivious as a virgin and as chaste as a monk, he had noticed certain parts of Roarke's anatomy were standing to attention, and he hadn't seemed as though  _that_  made him unduly uncomfortable. Roarke didn't believe the man would hesitate to make his displeasure known.  _That_  might not help, but it certainly wasn't the only factor in his agitation. Roarke was betting Nick's discomfort had its roots in a long habit of trusting no one, regardless of blood or friendship. It wasn't a compliment to the people of Cabhadh-làir that one of their own was uncomfortable with contact and nervous of people—it denoted, at the very least, ostracism, in a place and society that required interdependence from its inhabitants.

"You don't think so, though."

He had forgotten how much the lad saw. "Nay, Ah dinna."

They sat in silence another minute, and then Dórainn stood and began shuffling the sheets of thin-pressed plant fibers together, and stacking the books.

"Back tae bed wit' us, then, Ah suppose," Roarke muttered, and gathered his charge up.

* * *

He heard the return of Rapunzel and the children as he was preparing them both for the night; gentle cleaning spells rendered them unsoiled and fresh, and a few swipes with a comb returned his mane to tamed and made no noticeable changes to Nick's mop of ebony hair. The twins rushed in to say goodnight and tell 'Grandda Roc' (and wasn't that a kick in the ass? He thought, unbelievably pleased) of their visit with Tam's mother and siblings. He gave them one-armed hugs, pressed a kiss to each forehead, explained again that Nick was with him because he wasn't feeling well, and sent them back to their parents, to be put to bed. Rapunzel gave him the baby briefly, that he could dandle his youngest godchild while the two elder were convinced that the night was meant for sleep, and then returned to take little Diar.

"He looks very thin, Roarke," Rapunzel said in concern, eyeing her husband's look-alike without malice, or anything, as far as the mage could tell, other than genuine goodwill. Which, he knew, was simply how Rapunzel was. His boy had done superbly for himself.

"Ah said th' same, lass. But 'e'll do better when 'e's nae sleepin' sae much. The bind's takin' a lot oout o' 'im, wit' all the wards."

She nodded, accepting the explanation. "Make sure you feed him properly," was all she said, and went away with the baby.

He sat for a moment, unsure what next to do. For all his patient was exhausted, he was wide awake, and would likely remain that way for hours, if he slept at all. Nick's body was laying half beside, half atop him, his hair dark against Roarke's sternum, hindering his sudden restless desire to stand and pace the room.

Too long he had tarried here, five days when he'd meant to stay perhaps two. He could feel it, the abrupt, prickly want for what he'd made home. He loved dearly the occupants of this house, more perhaps than any other people in the world, and he needed them, very much, in his life.

But he needed the illusion of solitude home, with it's thick walls and ample space, provided right now, even when he knew there were others who lived there, and a bed that was his own. To say nothing of the tools and advantages he provided himself there, with its anti-magic wing for situations such as this, and vast library.

They would go tomorrow morn, he decided, he and Nick—in that, he wasn't giving the man a choice. Once the bind was off, and a modicum of control was under Nicodemus's belt, he could decide for himself what happened then. Before that, he was a danger to himself and others.

The restlessness partially assuaged by the having of a plan, he settled himself against the pillows and extinguished the candles and lamps with a wave of his hand. Nick shifted, murmuring sleepily as he moved, and resettled, pressed as close as skin would allow along his side, one hand laying almost tentatively on his chest beside its owner's dark head, the other arm trapped partially beneath Nick, partially between them. It would be the first, Roarke was aware, of approximately five changes in position Nick would engage in over the course of the night before he finally settled on and around him, like a sprawling cat.


	9. Chapter 9

Dawn's light came silvered by clouds, promising that rain was no further away than nightfall. Undeterred, Roarke had Nick up, bleary-eyed but uncomplaining, and had them both clean and dressed before the sun could fully clear the horizon, far to the East. The mage shouldered a pack as Nicodemus cautiously stood. He staggered a bit as he tried his legs, but a hard arm wrapped around his waist, steadying. His head ached, and his stomach, but it was subdued enough that he made it to the table, and a handy chair, before his knees dropped out from beneath him and Roarke's hand once more locked around his wrist. Alasdair was up—Nick had to wonder why it surprised him; dressed in the serviceable black both mages seemed to prefer.

"Your gelding is ready to travel; you need only to saddle him. The things in your saddlebags I left alone; they're in the stable."

"Thank you," Nicodemus replied.

"It was our pleasure," Alasdair replied, something like an ironic gleam to his silver eyes.

Tacking Tala one-handed proved interesting; the gelding rubbed his head fiercely against his master's side, knocking him over at every opportunity, and pranced nervously when Roarke drew too near. By the end of it, his body wanted to droop with weariness.

Pride, however, prevented any such thing, and he persisted, muttering a broad range of insults and praise to his horse as the girth cinched, the bridle slipped over flickering ears, and saddlebags and bow were arranged to satisfaction.

"Can ye use tha' monster o' a bow, then?" Roarke's voice rang in his ears for the first time since they'd left the cottage. Much to his relief, the man hadn't said a thing about his destrier's misbehavior, nor offered his help.

"Yes."

A coppery eyebrow rose—Nicodemus didn't need to see it to know it had moved; Roarke used the gesture often, to convey everything from disbelief to a challenge. Right now, it would be a demand for further information.

"Sufficiently well to keep myself fed." Roarke's thumb was doing the disturbing sweep against his pulse again, light enough to be a feather, but the grip of his fingers was strong—if he tried to pull away, they would hold like iron.

"Can ye hunt wit'oout losin' tae much time on the road?"

"Depends. Generally. If I'm not close tae a tradin' place, or if I'm inna 'urry, I dinna go fer large prey tha' takes a day or more tae clean and parse. Why?"

"'t takes ten days tae reach mah 'ome a' a horse's walk—aboot seven a' a decent pace, wit' gud weather. Wit' yer Gearrán—Tala, is tha' 't?—an' mah Damh, Ah think we kin make't in five. If the weather 'olds fair. Six, if'n this rain muddies the roads. Ah asked for only enough food fer tha' long."

"I dinna see why tha' would matter tae me." But he did, rather, and the notion of Roarke forcing him to accompany him home wasn't at all what he had planned.

"Dinna ye?" That eyebrow conveyed cynical disbelief. "Yer a danger tae yerself an' everyone around ye. With the top level o' tha' bind off and no magic-crafter aroound tae draw't off o' ye, any magic within a ten mile range o' ye'll knock ye on yer arse a'fore ye can get more than two paces. If'n 't overwhelms ye tae badly, as 't did 'ere, 't might stop yer heart—the better, loike as not, or shatter like glass, levelin' everathin' in the way."

A long brittle silence stood between them. "I take yer point, I suppose. 'ow long is it tae take, removin' the thing?"

"Per'aps a week, per'aps 'alf a year. An' af'er tha', Ah'd be givin' ye the verra basics o' control, at the leas'."

"Fer what?" Half a year, he thought, the clenching of his stomach abruptly far tighter.

"The magic in ye, Nick."

"I've lived my life wit'oout it, I dinna need't now." Didn't especially want it, even.

"Freed, t'will nae nicely curl oop an' go back tae sleep, laddy," Roarke said with a shake of his head. His black eyes were almost grim. "T'is loike sight. Once ye've seen, ye cannae simply keep yer eyes closed."

Pale lips and grey eyes both tightened at the corners. "I see."

"Nay, ye've no' seen yet," the mage disagreed. "But ye will."

That said, he turned without relinquishing the captured wrist, and gave a shrill whistle, short and piercing, that had Tala shaking his head and stamping in agitation. The other horses in the pasture looked up, the youngest of them using the sound as an excuse to canter around his two elders.

Nicodemus blinked once, and then again, at the stag that stalked out of the trees that the pasture segued into, jumped the fence with an effortless bound, and began to nuzzle affectionately at Roarke's chest. Massive and white, true white, with a thick mane round his neck and shoulders, and a rack of antlers, each one easily twice the length of Nick's arm.

"You've a bluidy Mór Fiadh there," there was awe in his voice. A Great Deer, as tall as a horse and strong as any ox, which lived in the highest reaches of the North. Not quite as difficult as a unicorn to catch, or so told the stories, but nearly as rare and quite certainly as dangerous.

"This is Damh," Roarke replied nonchalantly, scratching idly between the great beast's eyes, apparently unconcerned that he was almost bracketed by antlers capable of tearing him limb from lanky limb, or that Nick was as far distant, two arms' length, as he could be, the destrier dancing and siddling, his nostrils blown wide and the whites of his eyes showing. "Are ye ready fer 'ome, then, mah lad?" he crooned to the animal, not unlike Nick had with his mount.

"We'll mount up ooutside the wards, Ah think, when t'is a bit safer fer ye tae go't alone."

Irritated still, even under the awe, and deprived by logic of the righteousness of the anger, Nicodemus merely nodded, and allowed himself to be lead away from the house.

"Grandda Roc! Wait, Grandda Roc!" Two young voices, hardly distinguishable, cried out, and the thap-thap-thap of small bare feet against the ground pounded toward them. Nick's head whipped round, his grip on Tala's bridle tightening, worried that the horse might take badly to the notion of young, oblivious children scampering around his legs.

"Iona, Seòsaidh," Alasdair's voice cut the air like a whip, halting his children in their tracks. "Do not run around Damh and Nicodemus's horse."

"Yes, Da," the twins chorused, their contrite voices hardly able to mask their excitement. The girl wrapped herself around Roarke's knees as soon as they were freed by their father's permissive nod, and the lad was only slightly less enthusiastic.


	10. Chapter 10

The necessary goodbyes delayed them several minutes—the children were persuaded to let go only with the promise of another visit, soon, extracted from them both.

Frankly, Nicodemus wasn't quite sure what to think of that, especially when their mother seconded the invitation, and gave him a quick little hug that he couldn't quite jerk back from in time to avoid. He stood stiffly a moment, unsure precisely why Rapunzel was embracing him, bewildered as to how to react, and then she drew back, lovely smile undimmed by his lack of response, returning to her mate, where he stood holding their youngest child.

From there, they'd paused in the Gypsy camp, where he'd received heartfelt thanks from Domhnall Gypsyking, a wild-haired giant of a man, for the rescue of his youngest-born son—despite Nick's doomed protests.

* * *

Hours later, sheltered in a woodsman's abandoned hut, trying to dry out before the fire, he was still unsure of what to make of Rapunzel's uninhibited embrace, or the Gypsyking's insistence that he be properly thanked, and contemplated the fire broodingly, sternly forcing himself to think nothing at all, while he waited for Roarke to return from checking on Tala and Damh (safely ensconced in the adjoining shed, happily munching arbhar) for the final time before they turned in.

The door opened moments later, drawing his attention to the dripping mage.

"The animals're fine. Gods, t'is terrible oout there." Roarke shook his head, as though to shake the water from his face and hair, but succeeded only in flinging out a small shower of the droplets, and quickly began stripping out of his wet outer robes. The driving rain had soaked them through; even with the short amount of time he'd been exposed to it; and the tunic beneath it damp and uncomfortable, though it didn't drip as he pulled it off. He scrubbed at his hair with it, slicking away the worst of the moisture, before laying his clothes out before the fireplace, draped over one of the two chairs, where Nick's discarded outer-clothing already hung, dripping sullenly. His braes, save for an inch or so around the hems, were mercifully dry; flicking a glance at Nick, taking in the stony expressionlessness of his features and fixed gaze on the fire, he decided the man didn't need for any more shocks at the moment.

"'Ave ye eaten anathing, Nick?"

"Mm," he agreed, never taking his eyes from the dancing flames. "There is stew, o' a kind. Dried venison, arbhar, some o' the dried vegetables. A bit o' wine, tae thicken the broth. Salt, pepperoot, pinch o' ginger. There's plenty. Help yerself."

Roarke thanked him quietly, filling a bowl, still eyeing his reluctant companion. Detached was the word for him at the moment; Roarke may not have existed, for all the attention he garnered.

The stew was good, thick and well seasoned for trail-fare, and above all, warm and filling. Roarke, however, was far more interested in the man who'd made it. That Nicodemus had made it at all was indicative of a great deal of time spent on the road—favored or not, no brother to the Emperor would go hungry in Cabhadh-làir, and unless Nick had a previously unsuspected love for the culinary arts, he'd have provided his own meals only when deprived by distance of the Royal Kitchens. Too, the use of some of the ingredients implied prosperity, or particularly wicked bartering skills; not the most expensive of produce, it was true, but ginger was certainly not among the cheapest or most easily obtained, either, nor was pepperoot. He was good at what he did, was Nicodemus Secondson.

"Cards," Roarke remarked, standing and taking his plate and utensil to the wash-bucket that stood in the corner, washing them briskly. It was early in the evening—the storm had brought with it nightfall. Sleep would not be soon in coming.

"Beg pardon?" Nick's attention was finally dragged from the fire.

"Cards," Roarke repeated succinctly, rising and setting the bowl by the hearth to dry before returning to his seat on his spread out bedroll. He didn't meet Nick's searching glance, instead reaching for his pack, which, with some rummaging, birthed a small oilskin packet, in turn revealing well-loved deck of stiffened parchment cards. Just visible, the Fool grinned out, firelight flickering across it and making inked eyes dance. And then long, pale fingers flashed, shuffling with sharp, careless movements. "Ye ken Tarok*?"

"…In theory, yes," Nick allowed, suspicion narrowing his eyes.

"T'is easy enough. One o' us deals, the other keeps the scores. D'ye want tae cut?"

Nicodemus unfolded from the chair, a fluid, strangely feral movement that Roarke watched from beneath fiery lashes, and crossed to the bedroll in a few short strides before sinking into a cross-legged, stiffly straight-backed seat slight more than an arm's reach away, holding out a hand for the cards. He cut them, shuffled once, and then again.

"Dinna ye trust me, lad?" Roarke brought his gaze up from the dancing cards; or perhaps more truthfully, the slim, clever hands that manipulated them tenderly and dexterously, as he might a fragile relic; to fix on the too-familiar silver gaze of his companion, his mouth quirking wryly.

"No," Nicodemus replied, blunt as a club. "How many each d'we get?"

"Fifteen. The rest go tae the center, face-down. T'is a game o' tricks, aye? We each play a card o' the same suit, an' the 'igher card trumps the lower. Major Arcana go by card order—the Fool's first, straight through tae the World, which'll trump ana Major Arcana."

"Hmm. Wot are we playin' for?"

"A risk-taker, are ye, then?" He was inexplicably pleased by it, and was amused when the observation brought a hectic flush of color to flame-light washed cheekbones.

"And I s'pose yer aren't?" Nick shot back, flicking the final cards into the piles before each of them.

"Ah, true tha'," the mage replied, scooping up his hand while Nick straightened the draw-pile's corners, contemplating what could be wagered. He had little interest in playing for whatever gold Nick had on him, or the pouch of it that he carried—money had long since ceased to be a motivator of any strength.

Information, on the other hand, was a far more precious commodity.

"Questions. We'll play fer questions."

Nick stared, his brows beetled, his expression simultaneously wary and curious. "What d'ye mean?"

The black-eyed mage felt the smile, small and not entirely innocent, tug on the corners of his mouth. "Whell, lad, fer each trick, the winner o' tha' trick gets tae ask the other a question, in addition tae the points. An' 'ow 'boout the winner o' the game gets tae decide 'is own prize?"

The suggestions were met with ringing silence, but there was no give to the challenge in Roarke's face, and finally, Nick sighed, and lifted his cards.

"'ow d'we start?"

As it turned out, the game was easy enough once one got into the flow of it. The winner of the last set asked his question, and placed the cards he'd won to the side, and started again. It was enough of a game of skill to force his brain to work, and the uncertain luck of the draw kept him from slipping away into the cool, goal-oriented persona that had for years kept his more unsavory victories at a painless distance. And Roarke, he was pleased to note, was as gracious a loser as he was a winner.

He was also, Nick was convinced, quite strange.

"Yer favorite food as a wee lad?" Roarke asked, sweeping his Queen of Staves and Nick's Page of the same to his collected pile of vanquished cards.

Nick blinked; the last question had been his preference of cats or dogs (the answer, as it happened, was cats, though he didn't mind dogs of the larger, un-yappy sort). There was, quite honestly, no way of predicting the man's questions.

"Lamb," he remarked, contemplating it with a vague frown of contemplation. "There was never verra much o' it left in the kitchens after Court meals, so t'was a treat, if'n Úna," his nurse from moments after birth to the age of fourteen, as another question had yielded, "could get some."

Roarke nodded his satisfaction with the answer, and play continued with a Ten of Chalices, this time in Nick's favor.

"D'you have ana family?"

"None tae close; mah parents've been gone a score o' years each, a' least, an' m' brother tae. Ah've some cousins, tho', an' mah brother's children." Not that he'd seen them since Áedán's death, nigh-on a decade ago; the youngest of his cousins and grand-nieces and -nephews would remember him only vaguely, if at all. It was for the best, though; he was mage, they were folk to whom magic was further beyond their ken than was comfortable. They were as safe as his wards and charms could make them; he'd leave them to their own devices as was necessary.

Nick's head cocked as though he would ask more, but he glanced down at the cards again, and played another. Diplomatically, Roarke folding his lips to keep the grin that threatened to bloom in his face. The other man would misconstrue the meaning of such a smile, and he wouldn't appreciate the possibility that Roarke might find him amusing. He certainly would never guess, nor take kindly to the possibilty that the mage thought him as awkwardly, defensively adorable as a kitten fluffed to the full with its ears flattened and eyes wide. He glanced at Nicodemus's card, the Hermit, and selected one of his own, tossed his smaller card down and ignoring with ease Judgement's stern inked face from where it stared up at him from his hand.

Damn if he didn't want to hear the question that had written itself on Nick's face.

But Nick didn't oblige him, instead asking some inconsequential question about snow-shoes to the Far North of Cabhadh-làir, moonstone eyes averted and blank. But the mild pang of disappointment only fueled his determination to get under the mask; there was no way anyone as visibly and prickly held-separate from others as Nicodemus wasn't hiding himself.

The game continued more quietly now, Nick stubbornly sticking to impersonal questions, Roarke poking here and there before flitting away again into the baffling.

"The names o' yer past three lovers."

For the first time in nearly a quarter-hour, the younger man's eyes flew up, something akin to horror written there. " _Wot?_ "

"Ye 'eard me," Roarke reproved with an arched eyebrow. "Spit 'em oout."

"I don't—ergh, fine. Nona, Lucy, an' Jia."

Roarke's expression didn't change, but his eyebrow crept a bit higher. "Ye dinna lie whell, d'ye, even wit' all yer time in Cabhadh-làir? The roight names, naow, lad." And for the lad's sake, he hoped no one else had noticed Nick's tell; a minute flicker of his lashes, hardly noticeable unless one was watching closely. Beside that, he was a quick lad, and skilled enough to dribble truth amid untruth, to put exasperation where discomfort would have lain for anyone else. But now, caught in the lie (a small one, though, and forgivable), his expression closed, silver went hard and reflective.

"…Keegan, Bree, an' Nona."

The mage didn't let his features shift from their easy expression, didn't even let his surprise flicker in his eyes. "Nae sae hard, eh? 'Ere, make o' tha' wot ye can," he said, tossing down a six of pentacles, and sat back to watch his opponent play.

Bree and Nona, he had no interest in. Feminine and unassuming, they were the sort of names servants gave their daughters, in hopes that they would grow up sufficiently plain to avoid the eyes of the court's men. Roarke didn't doubt that whatever realationships had lurked there, it was the promise of mutual, emotionless release that was common among people in the precarious situation that was the Royal Court at Cabadh-lair that had drawn them together.

Keegan was a similarly unassuming name; strong, sturdy, masculine, befitting a lower seneschal or some such post. And it was 'Keegan' that pleased him, for it meant that Nick had entertained the notion of a male lover enough to, at the very least, experiment.

Roarke very much intended by now that Nick share his bed if circumstances and Nick himself allowed it; Keegan, whoever he might be, may very well have smoothed his way, especially if Nick has reconciled himself to what wasn't  _necessarily_  a sin, but certainly wasn't the norm of their society.

With that pleased thought, he turned his attention back to the game that was slowly reaching its completion. The draw-deck was gone now; Roarke himself had just lifted the last card.

"We play 'til we're oout o' cards, then count 'em oop. Usually we'd play again 'til someone 'ad a thousand points, an' when tha' set was over we'd count, but it'll take hours yet. 'nless ye want tae keep on?" Truly, he didn't mind one way or another, as he'd had more rest in the last several days than he needed in two weeks, and he likely wouldn't do much more than doze, but Nick, with that damned bind still on him, would need the sleep.

Nick nodded his agreement, and the game of Tarok played itself out, their remaining questions innocuous and barely worth asking.

"Major Arcana are fif'een points, kings twen'y-five, queens twen'y, knights an' pages fif'een, and the others're face value."

Roarke knew his cards intimately—they were tools, as well as amusement, and were treated as such. A deck of seventy-eight yielded eight hundred and fifty points for one set; he was in possession of only four hundred and twenty of those points.

He wondered what Nick would choose as a prize.

"I've four hundred an' thirty," Nick announced, when he'd finished counting.

"Ye win, lad. Ah've only four 'undred an' twen'y."

Nick blinked, as though he hadn't quite expected it, though he must have known the game was a close one, and froze. He'd had a number done to him, Roarke thought, disturbed and saddened, if he wasn't even sure of how to handle the commonstance social etiquette of winning a card game.

Now he wondered if Nick  _could_  choose a prize, taken so completely outside his area of comfort, and set adrift in a situation where he didn't fully understand the unwritten, unspoken rules, or if he'd stay frozen.  _What would—? How far—?_  Roarke had cared for too many awkward, terrified children not to be familiar with the reaction. He'd never yet found a good way of dealing with it.

But Nick surprised him again; the dark, unsure look faded from silver eyes. "You take first watch. Tha's mah prize."

The mage could only smile at him. "Tha'll do."

* * *

The rain stopped an hour past midnight, trailing away to gentler sounds of dripping water and a rushing creek nearby. The fire was banked, but it kept the chill of the night at bay. Roarke had eschewed the uncomfortable-looking chair for a seat against the wall, where he could see the door, the fireplace, and everything between. Nick slept quietly nearby, curled under the blanket of his bedroll. Roarke didn't doubt that the slightest unusual noise would bring him awake, with the dagger he'd surreptitiously slipped beneath his pillow gripped in his fist, eyes flashing and wary—he'd watched fighters sleep before, and slept the same way himself, more than once. He didn't settle calming energy over the man, though he would have liked to, and, in normal circumstances, would have without compunction or hesitation.

Stupid, bloody bind, he thought, shifting slightly to let his back rest on a more comfortable section of the wall.

It wasn't for another hour that Nick's sleep deepened sufficiently to send him into the realm of dreams and phantasms. Within moments, however, he was struggling against his blanket, face growing grey in the dim, red-gold light and sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead, despite the relative chill of the hut.

Roarke was no stranger to nightmares, either.

"Come on, lad, none o' that naow," he murmured, moving carefully to Nick's head before he shook the man's shoulder, in hopes of avoiding a blade in his ribs. "Open those pretty eyes, Nick, lad, lemme see yer awake, aye?"

Nicodemus came awake much as Roarke had predicted he would, with a wildcat snarl and his dagger slicing the air where a man more foolish than Roarke would have crouched, all before Nick's eyes had even cleared. The mage didn't give his a chance to do more; he had Nick's right hand captured in an unbreakable grip, and forced it down, pinning it efficiently to the bedding. His other arm snaked around the younger man's ribs, preventing him from twisting or pulling away, getting any kind of leverage that could be placed behind a fist or another concealed weapon. The struggle was brief, as Nick became aware of his surroundings.

"A' ease, boy-o, yer alright. T'was a nightmare, nae more. D'ye understand me?" he could feel Nick's chest heaving beneath his arm, hear the too-quick throb of his pulse beside his ear. And he felt his nod, as dark hair and red hair brushed and tangled, before pulling gently apart again.

"A-aye. Ah'm—I'm alright." The nightmare had come in vague, indistinct snippets of memory and premonition, but they had been terrifying all the same; the Leóghann's claws, his first battle, the Empress's faceless men following, following, all jumbled and interwoven, with  _danger, danger, danger_  pulsing through him like blood.

He became aware of Roarke's arm as the mage removed it, and was abruptly torn between discomfort with the touch and a curious sense of loss as it was taken away. But his attention was diverted to his wrist with barely a delay—his fingers still clutched the hilt of his blade, and Roarke's remained locked around his wrist. Something cold shot through him.

"Are you 'urt?" His voice was hoarse, nearly inaudible. He couldn't seem to look away from the gleaming steel, trying to find the blood that stained it.

"Eh?" Roarke shifted closer, as though to catch the hint of sound.

"Are you 'urt? D'I catch you?" Nick managed to repeat himself, adding volume. It was the last thing he wanted to have done—intrusive, irritating, and far too clever, Roarke might be, but he didn't deserve to be injured for attempting the kindness of dragging him out of one of his not-so-infrequent nightmares.

"Nae, lad, ye've nae 'urt me. 'Ere," those long hard fingers released his wrist, only to grasp his shoulders and turn him, that he could see the whole, unbloodied expanse of the mage's chest. "See?"

It was said with a smile, kindly, and without the gently mocking overtones Nick had come to expect of the man. Black eyes were warm, without the firelight's aid.

He almost didn't trust them. He certainly didn't want to—trusting anyone, mage or not, Northerner or not, was dangerous. And kindness tended to be an expensive, fleeting thing.

"Alright naow, are ye?"

He nodded, and groped under his pillow for the dagger's sheath.

"Gud. When ye've calmed, go back tae sleep. Ye've bruises 'neath yer eyes." Dark ones, too, like paint on his pale skin.

"The second watch—" Nicodemus started.

"Nick, Ah've 'ad more rest in the past week than Ah can stand. Ye've a many-layered bind on ye tha's drainin' evra ounce o' yer extra energy. Trust me when Ah tell ye tha' ye need the sleep far more than Ah."

He agreed, after a time, and meekly lay down again—an indication, Roarke realized, of how out-of-sorts Nick was, that he had given in with comparatively little fuss.

"Stubborn little bugger," he muttered, when he was sure the man was asleep again. If Nick had been stronger, the mage didn't doubt he'd still be awake, and they'd still be arguing over it. Then he smiled.

Strong-willed was good; he didn't need or want a student without a spine, but one who could stand on their own and give him hell, if that's what was called for—too, reliability was necessary. Roarke hadn't a doubt that Nick would kill himself trying to do something if he'd said he would. Loyalty helped; they'd see quickly enough if that lay in Nicodemus' repertoire.

Irritating, though, that they were the same qualities he looked for in a lover.

"An' tha's sayin' naught a' all 'boout ye bein' the sexiest bluidy thing on two legs, Nick, lad, tha's wandered mah way fer an age," he whispered, curbing the impulse to stroke his hand through the thick, dark hair that looked so soft on the man's head; no need to wake him again, was there?

So he settled back against the elderly wood of the hut's wall, and waited for morning.


	11. Chapter 11

It rained no more during the four-day remainder of their travelling—the only water that harried them, in fact, was a river swollen by the self-same rain, and even then, it was only an hour's detour before they found a fordable stretch.

The travel through the wood was easy and quick—Roarke knew his forest the way other men knew their bedrooms. Damh's ears had pricked the moment they entered, and on their last day of travel, the mage leapt lightly down, and pulled his pack and the lightweight saddle (really, it was more of a blanket with a harness, than anything as thick and unyielding as a saddle) from the Mór Fiadh's back. He sent the deer on its way with a pat and an affectionate word in dialectical Gàidhlig, and strode along at a quick, long-striding gait, his belongings lying over his shoulder and across his back.

"Nae tae much longer—two, three 'ours," the mage called over his shoulder to where Nick sat on Tala's back, watching the exchange between man and deer. Tala went to a trot for two strides, to catch up to the red mage, and settled back to his walk. Nick winced as every stride of the trot jarred his body.

There was magic here; deep and ancient, soaked into the forest indelibly. Nicodemus could feel it surrounding him—it was different than the mage Alasdair's. Instead of nausea, his bones themselves felt so hollow they would shatter at the slightest provocation, and while no headache plagued him, he couldn't seem to keep his breath. Roarke had offered several times to ride pillion with him, on Tala or Damh, but each time he'd refused—he wasn't fainting, and his head was clear enough to follow on the Gearrán. All the same, he knew as well as Roarke that the mage had been holding Damh back, fitting himself to Nick's pace, rather than the faster speed he could easily have asked for and would have received, even if it had killed Nick to give it.

It would have grated, the wordless charity, if he hadn't been pathetically grateful for the gesture.

"We'll pass mah wards inna moment or tae," Roarke said, an hour and a half later, appearing beside his ankle, as a medium-sized lake came into sight. "Ye'll 'ave tae let me oop—ye'll nae git past 'em withoot contact with me, an' t'is another three-quarters o' an hour tae get tae mah 'ome."

Lips compressing to a thin line, Nick kicked his foot out of his stirrup, and grabbed the mage's arm, to aid him in the swing up behind. He reclaimed his stirrup as hard hands and muscle-corded arms slid under his tunic and locked around his waist, making his skin shudder, and his bones return, more or less, to their original density. Roarke's bag, and Damh's harness ended up crushed between them, some bit of metal digging into Nick's shoulder blade.

Relief, however, was only momentary.

Even with the touch, he felt the kick of the wards, knocking him back against Roarke. Immediately, his eyes blurred with tears from the shredding pain of the headache that assaulted him. Bands wrapped around his chest, tightening until he thought his ribs would surely crack and his heart crushed. Far more gently, the mage's arms tightened, securing him.

"'old on fer me, lad, 'twill be over in a moment, jist let me…" he hardly heard the mage through the veil of pain and weakness. And then, gradually, some of the pain leeched away, until he could draw breath again, and it no long felt as though his brain would bleed beneath the pressure.

"W-wot're ye 'idin' from…with yer bluidy wards sae strong?" the words crept past his lips hesitantly, fugitives from safety, so that the inquiry was stretched over a dozen heartbeats, Úna's thick burr creeping into his voice.

"Ah draw from the Wood for 'em, lad, an' they've been strengthened twice a year fer nigh-on thirty-five years. T'would irritate me, if'n they were nae as strong as they are. T'is sorry Ah am, tho', tha' ye've been 'urt by 'em." Long fingers freed the reins from his loose grip, and heels must have nudged against Tala's ribs, for the destrier snorted, and began walking sedately, as though his master were made of eggshells.

He felt limp and boneless again, and hated it. He wasn't used to being physically helpless. Nick wasn't sure he could stand to remain restricted as he'd been in the Demon Mage's home.

His growing alarm sidled to the back of his mind, however, when the building came into view.

The first impression was that of size, and power. Nick goggled at the grey-green stone giant. It wasn't as large as Cabhadh-làir, certainly, but there was a sense of impregnability that even the inhospitable Keep couldn't match.

The second, after he'd managed to shut his hanging mouth, was of elegance. Long and mostly lean to the ground, the building—could it accurately be referred to as a castle?—swooped and curved with a myriad of different rooflines and towers, different sections in different styles ranging from those of the High North to that of what he'd read was from the South. There were towers the rose up above the level of the trees, doorways that spread wide enough to admit three horses abreast. Gargoyles scowled benignly down, and arches soared in an eerie, elegant hodge-podge of architecture. Tall wooden doors stood proud at the head of a broad flight of stairs.

"Loike it, d'ye?" Roarke inquired behind him. Why did the man seem incapable of  _not_  murmuring directly behind his ear, pressing closer and dropping his voice to an intimate purr to do it? Nick thought, as another cold-hot shudder trailed down his spine. It was disturbing in the extreme.

"Where d'you keep yerself in tha' monster o' a 'ouse?" he demanded as Roarke directed Tala towards the stable that ran perpendicular to the east wing.

"'ere an' there, lad. Daown we get, naow," Roarke said cheerfully, jumping down with an athletic grace his long, lanky limbs should have defied, pulling Nick with him, far less gracefully than was the man's norm. Nicodemus stood balancing on legs that weren't entirely sure they wanted to support his weight, disliking the need to lean into the arm the mage had left wrapped around his waist.

"Hobble this way, an' we'll get yer Tala untacked an' taken care of a'fore we do the same fer ye," Roarke instructed, leading him and his horse forward into the stable. Tala was given the first stall beside the door, had his saddle and bridle nimbly removed, and was presented with several handfuls of grain, all while his owner was forced to cling grimly to the Highland mage's side like a burr, straying never more than an arms reach at best.

Gods almighty, he couldn't live with this; not for six months, not even for another week. He couldn't bear even the thought of it, much less the reality—

"A' ease, lad," Roarke's voice cut quietly through the unfamiliar panic that kept rising like malignant soap bubbles. "There's a wing wi'oout ana magic. Ye'll live there, no' in mah quarters. T'will take nae more'n a moment," the mage promised, finishing with the Gearrán, and leading his guest from the stable, up those broad, shallow stone steps towards the wooden doors. The wood groaned at their approach, shuddered once, and very slowly began to swing open.

The doors could only have been open a crack when a girl, perhaps somewhere in the range of fourteen, ran out, fiery braid whipping unpinned behind her. She wore a girl's chemise and over-blouse, and a lad's trousers, tied round the waist with twine.

She skidded to a halt on the stairs above them. "You said you'd be away only twelve days!" She snarled at Roarke, what might have been unshed tears turning big, leaf-green eyes emerald. "It's been a fortnight!"

"Ah ken 'ow long Ah've been gone, Móra. Ah was delayed." Black eyes ran fondly over the disheveled girl, taking in the modified clothes, and the escaped braid. "Ah cannae believe tha' Ghada allowed ye oout o' yer room this morn loike tha', mah lassie."

He aided the bemused Nick up the last seven stairs while the lass fought her blush. A pretty blush, Nick noted absently, without any of the blotchiness one came to expect of redheads; one that deepened when the mage gave her hair a brief ruffle that turned into a strange, affectionate half-hug.

"Nick, this is Móra, one o' mah apprentices; the other's Allaidh. Móra, this is Nicodemus. 'E'll be stayin' wit' us fer a while."

She cocked her head at Nick, apparently feeling much better now, green eyes raking down and then back up, as though she could see straight through him. "Ghada will want to feed him," she remarked, blunt as stone.

Nicodemus blinked, vaguely perturbed by the notion of relying once again on someone beside himself for something as basic as food. He'd had plans…

"Ye'll meet 'er, boy-o, loikely—whell, naow," Roarke commented, looking once more past him. He looked, craning his neck at an uncomfortable angle as a tiny woman bustled toward them, swathed in brightly hued fabric, and focused solely upon the lass. Another girl, younger and towheaded, with timid golden eyes, tagged at her heels.

" _Al anesah_  Móra! You must not—Oh!" The woman truly was tiny; shorter even than Móra and only a hand's breadth taller than the younger lass; with darker skin than he'd ever seen before. Shining black hair had been coiled intricately, and somehow folded upon itself. Her eyes were large, and a warmer black than the mage's, with the slightest hint that lines may yet appear at their corners that was the only hint she wasn't the youth she appeared. Her smile was brilliant, and lit the black of her eyes, so that they gleamed their warmth. " _Assayed_  Roarke! You have returned."

"Aye, Ghada, tha' Ah 'ave," there was an ironic humor to his voice, tempered by genuine affection, as he went to one knee (he retained his grip on Nick's hand, and offered a shoulder for balance, that the younger man wouldn't come tumbling down beside him) to greet the girl he called Kenna, who shyly folded herself into his offered arms, burrowed close. Nicodemus wondered if the smiling woman had noticed the sarcasm at all, and blinked at the sweetness of the youngest of them.

And then the tiny woman turned to him, the smile changing in some way he couldn't quite identify. "You are  _Assayed_  Roarke's honored guest."

"Ah…" How did one respond to this? "'Is guest, anaway," he responded, wishing again he could shrug away from the mage's grip without landing in an undignified heap at his feet.

"Honored," she repeated steadily. "You are very different from the ones he usually brings."

Nicodemus could only blink at her.

"Ghada," Roarke stood, his free hand still clutched in Kenna's, "this is Nick—Nicodemus, 'is proper name is. Nick, this is Kenna," the child smiled, and hid against the mage's robes, "an' Ghada."

Roarke could feel Nick's tension, and noted the pale weariness that etched itself in his face. "Ghada, luv, 'e needs a room in the South wing."

She nodded, the smile returning and wiping the strangely piercing look away. "Yes, the chamber nearest the lake, I thought. With the windows. There is a bath and water waiting."

"Thank ye," Roarke replied, apparently unfazed by the woman's forsight, and the little girl detached herself to return to her, leaving Nick able only to nod in appreciation, before the mage was leading him into a maze of corridors and halls that blurred before his eyes.

"T'will get worse in a moment," Roarke warned, seconds before the world reeled, and the agony nearly took him to his knees. More than half carrying him, the older man hauled him across the threshold, pausing only to bend and scoop him off the ground completely while he gasped at the sudden, woozying lack of pressure and pain. Nick groped instinctively for something to hold onto, his hands tightening on the fabric of Roarke's outer robe, straining the cloth.

"Ah'll nae drop ye, lad. Yer room's jist over 'ere," Roarke jerked his head toward a door that stood open in welcome, and then set him again on his feet just inside it, steadying him when he wobbled like a new-born colt.

"There's nae magic in this wing; Ah've wards tha' will draw't away from ye, much as Ah've been doin' fer the last sennight. If this chamber doesna suit ye, yer free tae take ana o' the others, jist let Ghada ken it." Black eyes followed as Nick walked around the room once, learning his surroundings, and then sank exhaustedly onto the bed, freshly made and sweet-smelling. Glazed silver eyes stared dully back at him.

The wards had taken an incredible toll on him, Roarke noted, concerned; draining away strength he wasn't sure the man had to give. He would have to remember to program them to know Nick. That would reduce some of the stress.

"Wash oop," the mage instructed kindly, nodding to the large copper bath, where scented steam floated lightly up, "an' sleep. Ah'll bring ye food later, an' answer ana questions ye might 'ave. While yer bathin', Ah'll 'ave the children bring yer saddle bags."

"Thank ye," Nick managed, just before he disappeared out the door.

"Dinna thank me. No' 'til tha' bind's off o' ye, Nick," Roarke replied, the corner of his mouth kicking up in a wry half-grin.

* * *

The bath was heavenly; the water hot and soothing on his tense body, while whatever scented the steam relaxed him. It was a pleasure he hadn't been able to indulge in for what seemed months, an actual bath, one he could sit in, rather than chilly water from a stone basin, harsh lye soap and a cloth; so welcome he actually had to bite back a moan of satisfaction as he sank into the wet heat. The tiny woman, Ghada, had left him soap, towels, and a viscous, translucent-green liquid smelling strongly of flowers that lathered when he rubbed at it, presumably for his hair. He washed quickly once he was finished wallowing, and was working on rinsing the last of the green liquid from his unruly mop when the door creaked warning.

Two faces appeared; Móra, and who he assumed was the other apprentice, Allaidh. They were of a height still; the boy had yet to shoot up to what would doubtless be an impressive length; and retained the lanky androgyny of children sitting upon the cusp of youth. But where the girl was similar to her instructor in coloring, save for those green eyes, the lad's hair was dark, not quite black but very nearly. Not a pretty child, him, Nick observed, taking them in as they took him in. His facial bones were too strong, too narrow, like all the power that rested inside that little body had imprinted itself on his face. Incongruously, he reminded Nicodemus very much of a very young Alasdair, though they looked little alike.

Again, it was the eyes that set him apart; neither gold, nor silver, but both, like a wolf's.

Was it usual, he wondered, for strange, fantastical eye-colors to mark magical energy? Or was that simply chance?

"You look like Alasdair," the boy commented, walking further into the room without waiting for a verbal welcome. He set the saddlebag beside the bed, and the hunting bow with it and then turned to face him, all without once taking his eyes off the stranger in his midst.

"Tha' I do," Nick allowed, wishing desperately that he was clothed, and sank a bit lower in the bath as a poor substitute.

"He sounds kind of like Roarke, though," Móra pointed out, shedding her burden beside the other saddlebag.

Allaidh nodded his agreement, still studying Nick. "You don't look like one of the strays he usually picks up," the lad commented, and dodged nimbly the elbow Mòra threw towards his ribs.

Nicodemus blinked owlishly at the boy, bemused by his words. What strays? What did the boy mean?

Perhaps this was a hallucination, then, brought on by exhaustion, and there weren't baffling children in the room with him, saying strange things.

Somehow, he found himself nodding in agreement, and mumbling something that might have been appropriate. The children eyed him a moment longer, then nodded at one another, apparently satisfied, and left him alone again. Shaking his head in confusion, he dried himself quickly, and crawled into the waiting bed. He noticed that the sheets smelled like herbs—he didn't know which, but it was a familiar scent nonetheless, before his eyes dragged shut and his breathing deepened.


	12. Chapter 12

Ten men rode through the snow like furies, ripping through the southern landscape of the Dèan Laighe Leis an Fhuachd, their captain at the lead, and the flag of Cabhadh-làir flying. They had their mission: find the Empress Dowager's younger son, and return him to Cabhadh-làir through whatever means necessary. The Changeling enforcer was a traitor, and moreover, dangerous; a murderer who had slipped his chain and escaped the rulers' command. The orders had come from two sources, the Empress, and the Emperor himself—and both had offered a substantial reward for his return. A wizard had been called in, to summon an imp that would track Secondson by the scent of his spirit. That imp, currently curled inside a leather carrying-cage not unlike a hawk's, wouldn't prove useful until they were within twenty miles of the man, but once they were…

It was only a matter of time, the captain thought. There wasn't any place he could hide where they wouldn't catch him, and he could only run for so long.

* * *

Flickers of light filled one of the training halls, tiny balls of violet-white that trembled and wavered like candle flames. There were hundreds, some gently circuiting the room, others dancing 'round one another, still others splitting apart to make more.

Roarke sat in the middle of them all, cross-legged, with his eyes closed, and his body at rest.

It was one of his favorite practices, stimulating, yet as easily soothing. It made him concentrate on several different levels, yet the wisps could be controlled with hardly more than a thought. More importantly, it burned away the excess energy he'd been drawing off Nick without damaging anyone or thing. One by one, he joined all of the pale lights together into one steady ball of pale white-blue light, and compressed it, shaping it as he did so. Finally, black eyes opened, and he studied his project. A fair copy of Damh stood before him, recreated in the palest of purples, blinking his dark eyes and flicking an ear. A tweak here, and a tug there, and he was satisfied with what he'd created. Slowly, he loosed the energy, dispelling the image, and sent it into the stone that built his home, where it could be safely stored until he needed to draw upon it.

Comfortable once again in his own skin, he rose in a fluid motion and left the training hall.

* * *

"Your guest, he eats much,  _Assayed_  Roarke, or no?"

He jumped like a cat at the sound of Ghada's voice in the dimly lit kitchen, feeling like a lad guilty of some innocent crime. He always forgot just how quiet she could be, so much as to be damn near invisible when she chose.

"Gods, Ghada, ye'll be the death o' me." He pressed the heel of a hand over his pounding heart and took a deep breath, sending magic into the pale glass globes, illuminating the kitchen to a greater degree. "Nick? 'e eats 'is fair share, tha' 'e does."

"Wielders ever do," she said, in her accented Common, selecting a very large knife and chopping a leek with the cool efficiency of a woman accustomed to feeding a great many people. "It is why you and those children are ever thin, despite Ghada's food. Kenna is with the other two," she added, of her blonde shadow. Roarke nodded.

"Ye dinna look sae verra portly yerself," the mage pointed out, pulling an onion toward himself and selecting a knife of his own. A plate of gingerbread, still steaming gently, caught his eye, and his interest.

"Pah," she scoffed, putting the leek and his chopped onion to the side, carefully separated to prevent the mixing of flavors before the right time. "That is not the magic. Women of my mother's line have always been thin and hipless."

"Pixie-loike," he put in, starting on another. It was a familiar argument.

"Aiyah, that is no compliment " she speared him with a darkling look. "I would look like a true woman, not a girl of ten!"

"Ah never met a ten-winters old lass tha' kin cook the way ye do. Whell, 'cept fer Kenna." He gave her a wolfish smile, tossing his onion chunks into the waiting pot.

"Go on with you," she huffed, amusement and affection staining her dusky cheekbones with roses. "Out of my kitchen, rascal. You are worse than the children, I swear it so!" She made shooing motions with the knife still gripped in one hand. "Your Nick," her accent lengthened the 'i' to a double 'e', and made the 'k' abrupt "will have his supper, and the children too. Now, out,  _Assayed_  Roarke, and do not touch that gingerbread. You can wait until supper, the same as the rest of us."

A rueful grin quirked his lips, and he sent the sweet a last glance and retreated summarily from the kitchen.

Only to be ambushed again, just outside its doors, by both of his apprentices, his youngest ward just behind.

"Why is he here?"

"Where did he come from?"

"Why does he look like Alasdair?"

"Are we keeping him?"

"Well?" Allaidh finally asked, while Roarke stood there, waiting for them to finish. "Are you going to tell us?"

"There's an art tae subtlety, an' neither o' ye's mastered it yet," the mage commented dryly, looking from one to the other and back again. "Tae answer: because Ah brought 'im 'ere; same place Ah do; Ah've no' a clue; and tha's oop tae 'im an' Fate. Naow, yer lessons start again tomorrow, broight an' early," he continued cheerfully, grinning wickedly, ruffling both heads of hair as he passed and taking Kenna's hand when it nudged his, calling behind him "An' supper's in a few 'ours. Come on, luv, ye can give me a hand."

There was much to be done before supper.


	13. Chapter 13

His sleep had been quiet, and if he'd dreamt, they had evaporated as though they'd never been. Nick woke slowly, first to the scent of food, then to the feel of a hand, stunningly warm, against his face, as though to check an infant for fever.

"Awake, are ye, Nick?" Roarke withdrew his hand, leaving the younger man's cheek feeling cool and bare, and prickly, where it had rubbed against the stubble that was starting to grow.

"'m naow," he muttered, opening his eyes in time to catch the lightning grin on the mage's face.

"There's soup, some chicken, an' bread 'n cheese for ye, if'n yer 'ungry." Roarke turned, indicating the tray of food on the hutch chest that doubled as desk and bedside table nearby. "Or Ah kin go, an' leave ye tae sleep."

"Food," Nick replied, trying the word on a tongue that seemed to have tied itself in knots, and sat up. It wasn't until that moment, with the sheets pooling in his lap, that he remember that he was as bare beneath the covers as the day he'd been born. Fire leapt to his cheeks, and refused to be fought down, even as he snatched up the covers again. To his total humiliation, his cock, mortifyingly half-erect with sleep, twitched, threatening to tent the sheets more and betray him. With what he hoped was a coolly casual move, he bent one knee, and drew it close to his chest, hiding any indication.

"Could you, ah, toss me a shirt?" he asked, trying to yank the stiffness from his voice, and failing, even to his own ears.

"Certainly, lad." It was the last thing Roarke wanted to do. Skinny as a twig, the man might be, but it was a well-built, endearing skinny, lean with muscle, and the sight of it, with its owner awake and more-or-less well, was a shot of fire to the pit of his stomach. Add to that eyes that had yet to fully clear of sleep, flushed cheeks, and a half-hard arousal that he hadn't moved quite fast enough to hide…it seemed a crime to let him cover himself when all the mage wanted to do was lean down and crush those pale lips with his own, _especially_  when he knew how much it would fluster Nicodemus.

He enjoyed flustering Nick, that he did, almost as much as he liked looking at him.

Instead, Roarke bent to the saddlebags and pulled out a clean shirt, handing it over to Nick without protest. It wouldn't do to overwhelm the man so early in the game.

And besides, he thought, as Nick shimmied into the shirt and got up, the man's legs weren't half-bad either, long and straight and elegant, leanly muscled, with a very light scattering of hair.

It would take forever to sleep tonight, he decided, and didn't regret the loss, watching with a dry mouth and raised eyebrows as Nick bent at the waist to pull out a pair of braes, pulling the long shirt high over his thighs, to hint at the curve of his ass. Flexible bugger, the mage thought wonderingly, not a single bend of his knees, nor hesitation to indicate a lack of balance.

Could it be that the man was such an innocent as to not know what he was doing? There was no artifice to this tease, and certainly no exaggeration as he hurriedly tugged the trousers to his waist and fumbled with the laces.

Quite possible, Roarke decided. Nick was a comely lad, sure enough, but those scars and what must've been a fearsome reputation would send most away with lowered eyes, but for the curious and those with the confidence to ignore them. And the curious could be turned away with that rapier tongue, if so he chose. Too, he was the straightforward type, more likely to speak out or give no sign at all than to hint and beguile, at least about something as basic and complicated as sex.

No, this time he would leave the lad alone and quietly enjoy; it would rush Nick, to take him sensuously to task for the unexpected, but no less welcome, semi-strip tease. Instead, he turned nonchalantly, as though he hadn't watched every move, every ripple of trim muscle, with avid eyes.

"The room's comf'rtable, then?"

"Wot?—oh. Yes, verra. The bed was welcome, tae." Mostly dressed, he padded bare-footed to the trunk beside which the mage stood. His stomach growled at the sight of food, and clenched, demanding the sustenance immediately, ignoring the placating, muffling hand Nick tried to press against it.

"Go a'ead, Nick, the rest o' us 'ave eaten a'ready." It was late; Kenna was asleep, Mora and Allaidh taken to their rooms to study or relax as they wished. Even Ghada had started to settle, her evening pot of tea made and half-consumed by now.

Too hungry, apparently, to hesitate, he nodded, and fetched a chair from the corner where they stood out of the way. With an uncertain glance to the mage, he took another as well, settling them at right angles of one another before he claimed the seat before the tray.

"Ah," he waved a hand at the second chair, up-tilted face a study in stifled embarrassment. "Would you loike a seat?"

Roarke nodded, and pulled out the chair to sit. "Thank ye, lad."

Nick's manners were impeccable, masking the speed with which he ate, which was comparable to a starving dog. Scant minutes after sitting down, he was sopping up the last of the stew with what was left of the thick, grainy bread, cutting a substantial sliver from the small block of cheese and laying it atop. That too disappeared quickly.

"There's plenty, if'n ye want more."

"Nae, thank you. T'was enough."

It was quiet again, for a long moment, but comfortable quiet, where neither party needed inane chatter to hide their thoughts.

Until Nick was caught by surprise by a yawn, and failed to stifle it.

That seemed a trigger, for then Roarke sighed, and sat back, gathering himself to stand. "We'll see if'n Ah cannae get the second layer o' yer bind off af'er the children's lessons. Should free ye oop even more."

Nick nodded, following the mage to his feet, his eyebrows beetling a moment when Roarke took the tray, then smoothed again with resignation.

"An' Ah'll fiddle wit' the wards, see if'n Ah cannae get 'em tae recognize ye," he muttered, almost to himself.

"Thank you," Nick said, discomforted by the kindness.

"Nae point in ye sufferin' for 'em, nae when ye'll be 'ere fer a bit," Roarke replied off-hand, with a slight shrug. "'S there anathing else ye'll need t'night?"

"No. Thank you. But," he frowned, and Roarke raised an inquiring eyebrow. "Usually, I dinna sleep the night through. Tomorrow, may I borrow some books?"

The mage smiled. "As many as ye loike, Nick."

Nicodemus smiled, a bit hesitantly, back. "Thanks."

"Mah pleasure. Whell, Ah'll leave ye tae rest. Good night, Nick."

"'Night," Nick replied, just before the door shut. He stared at it for a long moment afterwards, eyebrows angled slightly in, wondering at the man who'd just walked through it.

Shaking his curiosity away, he peeled off the shirt and pants again, and crawled back into the bed. He still felt as though a herd of horses had flattened him to the ground none so long ago, and once again, exhaustion took him quickly, pulling him into the fluid realm of sleep.

* * *

Roarke glanced first at the book, illuminated by one of the pale globes he favored over candles, then back at the rough sketch he'd made of the seal upon Nick. This layer was another magic dampener, rendering his body incapable of regulating the amount of magic he could process without active use—t'was something most people had, regardless of power level or cognizance of the magic in them. Very few people were naturally allergic to magic, largely because there were so few magic free places in the world, and someone who couldn't metabolize the energy wasn't likely to live long enough to find a partner and pass the resistance on.

This layer was tricky, Roarke thought, an interesting mix of traditional northwestern magic and the mage-crafts of the Far South, not unlike what Ghada used. The first layer hadn't been so; it had been basic northern craft, powerful, but not particularly complicated.

Who had Nick run afoul of, and what  _possible_  reason could anyone have for putting something like this on a child? the mage had to wonder. This was nasty bind indeed, with so many layers Nick looked, magically speaking, much like the filling of a dumpling, swathed in dough. He shuddered to think of what the effects of such on a child would be, especially with the physical differences mages dealt with anyway: incredibly fast metabolism, resulting in less body mass and little desire for sleep; bones that tended to be brittle before puberty struck and gave them density and strength.

"'t can be unraveled…there, an' there," he marked the sketch with red ink at the appropriate spots. "Tha'll 'ave tae be broken through…"

He frowned fiercely at one section. It was no obstacle to be overcome, but a chart of sorts, or a pattern, woven into the bind itself. Eyebrows beetled, he copied it down, stroke for stroke. It wasn't a word in any of the languages he could read, but….it was familiar, hauntingly so, in a way that teased at the edges of his consciousness, dashing away when he reached for the thought.

Finally, glancing at the broad windows before his desk, noting the blackness of the night outside, the special pre-dawn darkness, he sighed, and left the books and sheets as they were, dimmed the globe and headed for his room. A few hours of sleep, he thought, then up again, for the children's lesson. After that, he'd see if he couldn't get the second bloody layer of the binding off the man without completely incapacitating poor Nick.

* * *

Nick woke late, atrociously so, for him, at midmorning, and crawled from the bed, tired from oversleeping, to find a breakfast tray on the trunk, still warm, with a note pinned under the cup.

_Try to eat it all, Nick, or Ghada will give you thrice as much at dinner, and she will fuss._

He blinked at Roarke's note, and placed it aside.

There seemed to be dumplings of some sort, baked, filled with something both like and unlike sweetmeat, smothered in a glaze that turned out to be sweet and spicy on his tongue, tea that was a bit sweet to his taste, and pale bread with butter.

It was an expansive repast, especially when he rarely broke his fast in the morning, and if he did, it was lightly, with little more than peasant's fare. But to his surprise, he managed most of it comfortably.

Roarke strolled in a quarter-hour before noon, to find Nick painstakingly maintaining the edges of his blades with whetstone and water he must have set aside from the wash basin.

"Sorry tae leave ye so long," he said by way of greeting.

Nick shrugged, pausing in his work. "I kept busy." He'd longed, mildly, after a scrap of wood to whittle or a book; something to pass the time. It was so odd, almost maddening, to be trapped inside, unable to venture past the door.

"Sae Ah see," Roarke replied. "Ah was thinkin' that ye'd want tae stop by the library first, before Ah tackle tha' second layer."

It seemed amazing to him that the same man who could go for hours unending without a murmur spoke at length under his breath when confronted with a well-stocked library. In fact, tugged after Nick as he paced up and down the rows, scanning titles, reaching reverently out to stroke a binding, or murmuring quiet pleasure beneath his breath, Roarke found the softness he had been watching for.

Within minutes of entering, Nick had accumulated a pile of books sufficiently tall to keep most people reading non-stop for a few weeks at least. With the addition of the final volume, Nick eyed the stack critically, and nodded decisively.

"Tha'll 'old me fer a bit." He looked up at Roarke. "I'm ready, if you are."

"We'll drop yer books off, 'n' git tae work, then."

* * *

The room was blank stone around them, scones in the wall lit not with torches, but odd, glowing balls would have provided cool, steady white light, had adequate light not poured in through the high, arcing windows near tall ceiling, iron framing holding the glass in place. A table was laid out with tools of a practicing mage's art and trade, and there were several chairs at it. Nick sat quietly, face set and impassive. Brave, Roarke thought, and found he was still as impressed with the young man as he had been the first time he'd opened his mouth and spat venom.

The second layer was complex to look upon, but simple enough to unlace in parts, as one takes a tangle of fine chain. First here, the mage's magic acting as oil, the better for it to slip apart, then there, a push-pull jerk. That corner, the gentle niggling that coaxed further unraveling, and finally, some hours later, with a muttered curse and narrowed black eyes, he peeled the layer away, still largely intact, and laid it carefully across a length of pale silk charmed to keep the magic-craft from dissolving like mist in wind.

It had been a gentler removal than the first, but it still left Nicodemus pale and gasping in his chair, every muscle rigid and taut against the pain of having something that had become as intrinsic as skin torn away.

"Breathe, mah lad," Roarke murmured, crouching beside the chair, taking one of Nick's cold, knotted fists in his two hands, and working his thumbs over its back, along the lean tendons, easing away cruel tension until it lay open and loose there, like an infant's, then up his forearm. He made no move to circle around to Nick's back and stroke the tension from his neck and shoulders; instinct told him he'd not be thanked for that, not yet.

"Come, Nick, breathe easy. Slowly naow, yer 'eart'll follow. In, an' oout, nice an' slow," he kept up the soothing murmur, releasing the loosened hand in favor of the other, and did the same there.

It was several long, torturous minutes before Nick's color returned to his ashen face, and his body relaxed enough that he could stand without trembling; a dozen more before he could make the short journey from the work hall back to his carefully magickless wing.

"'ere," the mage said, once Nick had sunk gingerly onto the bed, taking his shirt from him so he sat only in braes, and helping to untie bootlaces that suddenly escaped weak fingers.

"Wot're ye doin'?" suspicion fought its way through fatigue, had silver eyes narrowing.

"Lay on yer belly, aye? There's a lad." Roarke rifled through a small chest Nick had yet to fully explore, and selected one of the plain stoneware bottles, unstoppering it after gently swishing its contents.

"I'm nae convinced o' whiskey's restorative powers," Nick warned, eyeing the bottle warily. He had yet to move, still grimly holding himself upright.

"T'is nae whiskey, nor anathin' ye should drink," the sorcerer replied absently, pouring a bit of liquid from the bottle into his palm, and rubbing it onto both hands, warming it. "Lay daown, Nick. T'is easier fer us both tha' way—Gods!" He stopped dead where he stood, and tossed out his arms in a disgusted gesture at the feral flash of the younger man's eyes and the way he was on his feet and away from the bed in a heart's thump, staggering only a bit until he could grip the back of a chair for security. There he paused, swaying and glaring, clearly intending to fight whatever the mage might attempt to throw at him.

"Wot the—" A million things flashed through his mind, each considered and thrown away before 'violation' chilled his insides, and gripped them in a vicious fist.

"Ah didna mean  _tha'_! Ah've no' jumped yer bones yet, lad, Ah think ye can trust me nae tae jump 'em naow, when ye can barely stand." Nick continued to watch him, wary and angry. "T'is fer yer neck an' shoulders, Nicodemus Secondson, nae an inch below yer scrawny waist." Black eyes carefully reflected only irritation, and his brows beetled into a scowl, as he waited. Slowly, after a long, guarded assessment, Nick returned to the bed, meeting him gaze for gaze the entire time.

"On yer front," he muttered, annoyed, when the man was finally prone. With a sluggishness that was a mix of wary design and what had to be exhausted languor, he rolled, with barely the energy to lift one arm to rest comfortably beside his head. Shaking his head, Roarke poured out more of the fragrant oil, and knelt beside him on the bed, laying his slick fingers gently against the too-taut muscle before he pressed deep, and began kneading tight, painful circles in Nick's flesh.

A harsh breath hissed from between the man's teeth, and he jerked against the pressure.

"Dinna go tight, yer nae 'elpin' me nor yerself. T'will 'urt fer another moment, and then get better," the mage promised, intent on his work. True to his word, in another few minutes the pressure that had been so excruciating turned slowly to pleasure exquisite enough to have Nick sighing with it, and going helplessly boneless.

"Carry all the weight o' the world 'ere, dinna ye," Roarke observed softly, expecting no answer and receiving none, dribbling a bit more oil onto Nick's warm skin and applying the heel of both hands to the lean muscles stretched over sharp shoulder-blades. When at last he was satisfied that the tension had been banished, nearly an hour later, the younger man was so deeply asleep a herd of wild horses stampeding through the room wouldn't have woken him. A smile flitting around his lips, he tugged the sheet level with Nick's shoulders, replaced the oil in its chest, dimmed the lights, drew closer together the drapes, and took his leave.

* * *

The smile dropped away as the door closed with a soft 'tmp', and black eyes went cold.

It was, perhaps, a good thing that he wasn't a Time-walker, or a Seer, he thought, leaning back against the door until he could trust himself not to hit something very hard. If he had been, whoever put that fear in Nick would have found himself a permanently limping, squeaky-voiced eunuch. Had they succeeded in forcing that particular indignity upon him? the mage wondered viciously, and fought down another spike of rage. Or only taunted him with the knowledge that he had to fear such an attack?

Bastards, either way.

He let himself stew a while, standing quietly in the hall, furious and disgusted and nearly murderous. Finally, with a great deal of effort, he pushed the rage away. It wouldn't help Nick, and it would only hinder him, trying to help the man. The matter would be dealt with later, when Nick had the power to walk away, if he needed to. Roarke wasn't cruel enough to delve into so personal a topic when Nicodemus was essentially confined, and had limited escape routes. Taking another deep breath and letting it out in a gust, he headed for the kitchens. Ghada was always cooking something, or always had something to be prepped for a meal, and he had a need at the moment to make himself useful, preferably with a blade in his hands. Though vegetables were a poor substitute for what he wished to do.

* * *

"Lavender oil," she commented in her odd, dryly lyrical accent, when she walked into the kitchen, to find him slicing meat with a dexterous hand. The scent, clinging to his fingers despite the scrubbing he'd given them, was strong in the room, rising over the scents of food to be made. The mage glanced up, met her speculative dark eyes.

"'t doesna mean the same thing 'ere as where ye come from," he muttered, resuming his work. In Tamar, lavender was a precious commodity, used in betrothal and wedding ceremonies. Here, it was a healer's tool, fairly uncommon, but little more.

"Lavender is for devotion," she stated, as though he hadn't spoken.

"It's an astringent; 't relaxes the nerves an' releases tension."

She humphed at him. " _Assayed_  Roarke, you have no romance. It is the holy binding between two souls."

"Ah'd point out we're both men, Ghada." It was a crime where she came from, to desire the same sex, against the teachings of their gods and society; punishable with torture and execution in Tamar. Reminded of that, perhaps she'd leave it be.

"Pah," she scoffed in response, and reminded him anew why he adored her, even when she was pushing at him. "We are not in Tamar, and you have no alliance to our god Ngahi. Love has no eyes."

"Ghada—"

"Ah-ah,  _Assayed_  Roarke.  _Love_  has no eyes, but Ghada's are sharp."

He paused in his work, laying the knife aside, fighting down an exasperated sigh she'd take as wistful. "There's nae love a'twixt us, Ghada, an' 'e can scarcely stand tae be touched."

"For now,  _Assayed_ , it will not always be so." Her eyes were gentle, and the hand she laid on his arm light. "You will reach him, as you have reached all of us."

"'s nae aboout me, Ghada," he said, shaking his head gently, covering her hand with his. She was a romantic, far more so than anyone else he knew, and no protest would sway her, if she'd decided Nick and he were right for one another. "Ah can reach oout all Ah loike, 'till Ah'm blue 'bout the face, an' 'nless 'e reaches back, Ah could be reachin' fer the moon fer all the success Ah'll 'ave."

"He will," she replied, voice ringing with certainty. Roarke's eyebrows rose in doubt, but he nodded.

There were times when he could swear on all he held dear that Ghada was far more than she claimed to be; her predictions had an eerie way of coming true, though she swore roundly she didn't have the Sight. And she didn't act like a Time-walker, vague-eyed and forgetful.

He didn't see, as he walked away, Ghada's black eyes go misty gold or hear her voice go smooth and soft. " _It is time you receive your proper mate, Roarke_.  _I've a task for you both._ "


	14. Chapter 14

"I wasnae raped," Nick snapped out, when Roarke entered the chamber with his evening meal. The mage stopped where he stood, just inside the door, and blinked at him, standing, fully-dressed and apparently awake, beside the windows. Nicodemus whirled away from the glass when he was met only with silence, and pinned Roarke with a sharp look.

He hated, absolutely hated, that his reactions had given away so much, knew that this denial only gave away more. He cursed once, under his breath. "Sae dinna—"

"Alroight," Roarke agreed, equably, with an accepting nod. The man hated the idea of being pitied—the mage didn't blame him. But it wasn't pity he felt.

The beginning of what seemed to have been a building tirade fizzled like sparks in snow. Uncertainty flashed suddenly in silver eyes, but they quickly firmed. "Good."

Taking another few steps, Roarke placed the tray on the chest for him. He moved deceptively carefully, making sure Nick could see him easily and completely, movements slow and measured. The nameless 'they' might not have raped Nicodemus's body, he thought bitterly. That didn't mean that the damage hadn't been done.

Little wonder he'd resisted the constant contact that had been necessary in Dórainn's home, and his sleep was normally so light. Damn them.

"Ah'll leave this fer ye, then." He couldn't imagine that Nick would relax at all while he was sitting there, the hectic flush of embarrassment and rage was hint enough of that.

Nicodemus blinked at the clench of disappointment in his stomach. "Oh. Aye." He hadn't meant to make what was between them even stiffer. This was the problem of emotions, he thought, irritated with himself: they bollixed things up, then made one ache afterwards, and struggle to fix them, when not bollixing them up in the first place would have achieved the same thing. "If'n you loike."

Damn it, he thought wearily, and reached up to rub at the pain layering into his neck with the tension. Why hadn't he just left well enough alone? What was some pride, in exchange for aid, and companionship he could stand and even enjoyed?

"Tha'd be oop tae ye, lad," Roarke replied, fussing with the utensils while he observed from beneath fiery lashes. Bitter anger faded, faced with Nick's inept appeal for company. ' _Fightin' yerself, laddy, far more'n yer fightin' me._ ' He thought, hiding the fragile beginnings of a wry smile. "Ah'll stay if'n ye want me tae, or go, if ye prefer."

There was a stretch of silence taut with nerves from one man, and waited out in patient expectancy by the other.

"Stay?"

Nick was rewarded with a smile from the red-headed mage, but he couldn't quite force an answering smile to his lips, disturbed by the warmth that uncurled in his belly at the approval. That wasn't something he could allow himself to get used to, yet he wasn't able to find the mental glass walls that kept him a safe distance, and that sent a shock of icy terror down his spine. Other people's approval was a foreign thing, to be warily edged around and closely examined for traps and obligations. He'd learned very early not to look for it.

He sat down in his chair, wondering, as he picked up the sturdy utensils, why he'd asked the mage to stay. The silence was growing between them, and his mind was blank of anything that resembled a conversation topic in the least. Roarke had taken his seat as well, leaning comfortably back in it, black eyes heavy lidded and watching every move he made, not unlike some great predator. It was enough to add to his growing discomfort, rendering him twitchy and ill at ease.

Long minutes passed, each second seeming an eternity. When at last he thought he'd go mad, Roarke finally lifted a brow and asked him a question he'd not been expecting.

"Yer nurse. Was she gud tae ye?"

"Eh?" His eyes, which had been flickering between his plate and Roarke's face for the entirety of his meal, now snapped up. "Úna?"

"Aye."

Nick blinked—the mage thought it an endearing trait, that sweep of thick dark lashes down and up whenever he managed to surprise the man.

"Whell, yes, I s'pose," he nodded, puzzlement quirking his dark eyebrows together. "She wasna cruel, or anathing loike tha'. She's lost 'er babe the day a'fore I was born, sae…" he shrugged, as though that would adequately explain what words wouldn't.

Unwilling to let it go so easily, Roarke made an encouraging noise deep in his throat. Nick frowned.

"I don' know. She did whell enough by me—I did nae starve, an' she didna hit, even when she was in 'er cups." Feathers visibly ruffled, Nick stared at him, unsure of the direction Roarke was nudging him in.

"She didnae touch ye much," Roarke commented. No hugs, he thought. No kisses, no affection. None of the things a child needed.

"Úna was mah nurse, no' mah mother," Nick pointed out, a mild edge to his voice, irritation beginning to spark in steel-sharp eyes. "She did wot she was paid tae do."

"Yer brother doesna 'ave 'alf the brogue ye do."

"Mah 'alf-brother was nae given over tae a scullery maid hailin' from the Heights tae the west an 'our past 'is first breath, either," Nick snapped, too irritated even to wonder how it was Roarke knew the Emperor. "Leave off tha' topic, Roarke."

Coppery eyebrows shot high. "Whell naow, is tha' all't takes tae get ye tae say mah name? Me pryin'?"

"Wot?" Baffled again, Nick stared concernedly at the man across from him. Perhaps a head injury could account for his oddness, he thought, in which case, the mage could be safely ignored.

"Tha's the first time ye've said mah name, boy-o." A wry half-smile twitched the corners of his mouth into an amused twist. Gods above, he was a mess, wasn't he, that the changeable expressions (and little over than that, more's the pity) of a prickly little termagant with big silver eyes could make him so bloody hard?

Hmm. He eyed the younger man, and mentally shrugged.

Nick jolted when Roarke shot unexpectedly to his feet and was around the corner of the trunk in a heartbeat, leaning over him before he had a chance to do more than raise his eyes.

"This's me forcin' mahself on ye, lad. Brace yerself."

"Wh—"

The sound was cut off the unexpectedly gentle press of lips against his own, a whisper of sensation that brushed once, twice, and then pulled away, leaving him wide-eyed and staring into unrepentant black that danced wickedly. Calloused fingertips brushed briefly along his jaw, and were gone as Roarke backed up.

And then he was backwards out of his chair, putting space between them. "Wot the 'ell was tha'?" Nick snarled. He managed to refrain from scrubbing his arm across his lips, but only barely.

"Ye cannae say Ah gave ye nae warnin'," the mage pointed out. He righted the chair Nick had knocked over and picked up the tray Nicodemus had abandoned. "Think on 't, eh? Ye'll figure 't oout, Ah'm sure."

With that, and the dip of his head goodnight, Roarke left Nick standing in the center of the room, wild-eyed and nearly trembling with confusion, still able to taste the mage on his mouth.

* * *

Roarke left him largely to his own devices the next day; his breakfast had been left on the trunk when he woke, with another note pinned under the cup, telling him to rest and relax today and that the mage would tackle the third layer tomorrow.

 _Coward_ , Nick thought grimly, and picked at his breakfast. He still wasn't sure what he thought of what had happened—he wasn't even sure what he could rightly call it; conscience wouldn't let him term the kiss assault. Roarke hadn't even bruised his mouth, just confused the hell out of him.

A power play? It was the first thing his mind jumped to, but he discarded it quickly. Far too messy for the mage, with such uncertain results. To say nothing of an apparent lack of motive: there was no one here to be impressed, no conceivable material gain.

And it was no joke, unless he had greatly misjudged the man.

Scratching an itch. That was possible; probable, even. That he could understand. It was standard practice in Cabhadh-làir, almost expected. He wasn't so foolish as to think that outside the city it wasn't possible, simply because Roarke was the antithesis of the courtiers and nobles of Cabhadh- làir's court.

He shifted, shoved away from the trunk, and sprang up to wander the room, scowling fiercely.

Damn Roarke for displaying this facet of their convoluted relationship in a way he couldn't simply ignore, especially when he was unable to make a rational decision about the matter.

He didn't want to sleep with Roarke. He didn't really want to sleep with anyone at the moment, when his entire life had been turned on its ear and any of the tentative plans that might have flitted through his mind stomped into the mud.

Yet his cock gave a demanding twitch of interest at the mental mention of the mage, one that refused to be ignored. Nick was thankful that no one was there to see the flush of color it forced into his cheeks, and cursed at length under his breath at his body's foolishness. His first experimentation with a man had been a dismal failure that had left him feeling cold and vaguely ill, and the second had been embarrassing and unpleasant; he'd dropped the notion after that, and stuck to females, ignoring the part of himself that admired the long, lean muscles of a man's back or an attractive face stubbled with a day's growth of beard. Or anything of the like.

And he'd long ago grown adept at avoiding unwanted advances, male and female alike, had been dodging them since he'd been little more than a lad.

Or so he'd thought. Roarke had demonstrated quite ably that he wasn't nearly as on-guard as he'd thought himself. It sent a shudder down his spine, the need to protect himself combined with a residual, illogical terror that his actions or words would be used against him to render him helpless.

He made another circuit of the room, before he detoured back to the trunk and his abandoned breakfast, and lifted the note again. A humorless bark of laughter cracked from his throat.

Roarke wanted him to relax. He sent a derisive glance winging down his body, to where the front of his braes still distended.

Right.

* * *

Contrarily, when the mage checked in on Nick in the late afternoon, he found the younger man asleep, back to the smooth stone wall beside the bank of long, slender windows that faced the lake, a book beside him, still held open by slim, strong fingers.

An odd place for a nap, he mused, when there was a perfectly good bed not more than eight feet away or in one of the three comfortable chairs that stood about the room, but whatever made Nick happy. He looked peaceful enough, his breathing evident in the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and his eyelashes fanning over his pale cheekbones like soot.

Roarke stepped over the man's legs, where they were stretched out and crossed at the ankle in front of him, hunkered down next to him, gently lifting one of Nick's wrists, to check the pulse there. There was always the worry that a magic user, especially when something about his powers was wrong, would fail to wake up. The steady throb of it relieved him, until a sudden kick in the beat beneath his fingers informed him that Nick had woken, and he lifted his eyes to meet blade-sharp grey ones.

"D'you 'ave some sixth sense, or sommat, tha' tells you when I'm asleep?" Nick growled, and pulled his wrist away, uncrossing his ankles in order to stand.

"Nay, lad, t'is a gift o' coincidence," He replied with a wry quirk of hard lips. Roarke was standing first, and offered him a hand up. After a long minute's consideration, Nick took it, and let the mage pull him to his feet. "Ah jist came tae see if'n ye wanted anathing."

Perhaps an explanation? Nick wondered, but didn't say it. He still wasn't entirely clear on how he felt about the matter; he didn't intend to open that subject again until he was very sure what he wanted. Or didn't want.

"I'd like tae see tae mah 'orse." That had been another niggling worry—not that Tala hadn't received excellent care, for Nicodemus was sure he had—but  _he_  had always been the one to care for the Gearrán, without fail. It made him twitchy, not to be in control of his personal world, and Tala and his care tended to be utmost in that world.

"Glutton fer punishment," Roarke muttered, almost inaudibly, but smiled. "Aye, 't kin be done."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Nick was embraced by the warm smells of hay, leather, and horse. He breathed deeply; it was a good, comforting smell. Here, he could relax; or mostly, anyway, what with Roarke was right beside him, his long fingers wrapped around his wrist, and his thumb (damn it) sweeping absently across his pulse, there could be no true relaxation.

Tala whickered when he saw them, and met Nick at the stall door, shoving his big head into his master's chest when the door opened, effectively knocking Nick backwards into the mage's chest. It was fortunate for him that Roarke was quick enough to help him keep his balance and retain possession of his wrist at the same time.

"Thanks," Nick muttered, standing straight. He had felt the lean strength behind him, the solid unyieldingness of the mage's body, and alerted to the possibility of intimate physical contact with the man, his body had perked to life, unbidden by his brain.

"'s no' a problem. This might be easier fer ye," Roarke speculated, and then slid his hands beneath Nick's shirt, to lie lightly at his waist. It freed his hands, and the touch was no more familiar than that of a healer's impartiality, but Nick shuddered nevertheless as blood rushed from his head and gooseflesh prickled along his skin.

Trying to put it from his mind, Nick turned back to his horse, stroking Tala's soft coat to check for dust, and lifting his big hooves to examine them. It was easier said than done, though, when every movement had the mage's callused hands rasping over his skin, sometimes as high as his ribs, across the other set of scars the leóghann had laid into his body, sometimes brushing the sensitive flesh just above where his trousers rode, a scant inch higher than his prominent hip bones. Every gentle scrape showered another scatter of embers beneath his skin, until he could have killed the man. His skin was so abruptly sensitized, sparking at the vaguest of touches.

Nicodemus's breathing had begun to hitch to shallow pants, and his heart pounded in his chest so hard, it seemed a wonder it hadn't battered its way through his breastbone.

"Are ye alroight?" Concerned, Roarke leaned around him, to get a glimpse of his face. The movement brought him flush against the younger man, and elicited a harsh intake of breath.

"'M fine," he managed, not quite a growl, but also not the breathy moan he'd been afraid of. Every limb felt weak and heavy, like liquid iron, quite willing to mold against the mage's frame.

"D'ye feel faint?"

"Nae. Jist—'eadache." He fell gratefully on the first excuse that presented itself. It was as though a fireball had exploded within him; a completely foreign feeling that was more than tinged with terror—physical attraction had never before been so… _physical_.

"Let's get ye back, then, sae ye can lay daown," Roarke said sympathetically, taking more of Nick's weight automatically when he stumbled from the stall. The pale-eyed man hissed, as with pain, his eyes clenching tightly, and the mage eased his grip, then paused.

"'eadache, indeed," he muttered, sympathy fled, nudging Nick back to lean against the wall. "Tha's got a cure, lad, an' an easy enough one."

Silver eyes shot open when Roark's clever fingers managed the laces of his pants without trouble.

"Wha—" the demand strangled as those self-same fingers curled knowingly around him, and black lashes fanned down as they slid gently upwards, careful not to hurt him for a lack of slickness to ease the friction, simultaneously freeing him from the confines of cloth.

"There's a gud chance tha' yer reaction's more fer the bind bein' fooled with, or the magic in ye stretchin' oout," Roarke murmured, steadying Nick as his knees trembled, easing them both to the ground, where he knelt beside Nick, supporting his upper body against his broader chest and wrapping his free arm around Nick's shoulders. "T'is a natural thing, naught tae be a'shamed o'."

"I dinna want tae—t'go tae bed wit' you—"

Patiently, Roarke put aside the tiny sting that came with that. "Nae one's tellin' ye tae. Magic takes its own release, cooped oop tae long. Yer's bein' freed, sae it's coming oout. Better this than weepin' blood, or sommat loike tha', dinna ye agree?"

"S-so fast—" Nicodemus gritted through teeth clenched against the wild sensations that had his body rocking slightly to the rhythm of the mage's hand, had his back arching involuntarily, and his head falling back. Gods' above, where was his control? Where was the aloofness that had characterized his sexual activities up to this point, when he finally needed it? He'd never come so close to release with so little.

"Aye. Wild magic's loike tha'."  _Poor lad_ , he thought, taking in the flushed cheeks and averted face, the musicians' hands that fisted against the stones of the floor, nails doubtless cutting deep half-moons into his palms. The magic was racking overwhelming sensation through him and he was fighting it so hard. Late-born mages had a rough time of it, and his had been rougher than most. Surreptitiously, he pressed his lips to Nick's rumpled mane of black-silk hair, tamping down his body's response to Nick's arousal. "Dinna forget tae breathe, Nick."

He was answered with a gasp, and the return of the quick, shallow pants that made Nick's chest heave sporadically, fighting for oxygen.

Every muscle in the younger man's body abruptly went rigid, his features a mask of unwilling pleasure, as his body gave itself over to pulsing release with a quiet groan of surrender. At last, he slumped against the mage, drained, and his entire body unknotted itself.

A controlled flick of mage-craft cleaned away the evidence, even as its master prepared himself to deal with the true mess. Nick twitched violently when Roarke helped right his clothes with a brisk air, and his legs scrambled wildly for purchase when the mage lifted him, 'round the waist, to his feet.

"Steady?"

"Aye," the younger man mumbled, fighting the flush across his cheeks.

* * *

Nick refused to show his embarrassment and shame, and steadfastly ignored the hardness he'd felt through the dark cloth that shrouded Roarke. With forced civility, he inquired about the architecture of the mage's home, and listened, partially, to the response; relieved beyond words that the mage hadn't mentioned what'd happened.

The rest of him still whirled dizzily.

Whatever the mage said, magic hadn't been the only thing behind that sudden interlude, he thought, reining himself in fiercely. Lust had been there too.

It was a frightening thought. Emotions, though impossible to avoid, meant mistakes and loss of control. He couldn't lose control of himself—wouldn't.

He couldn't control the actions of others; much of his life 'til now had illustrated that starkly. But he could and damn well would control his own.

Nick would not let the kernel of attraction he had for Roarke become anything. He would not let the mage touch him in any way that could even peripherally be deemed sexual. And he would not dwell on the kindness and hospitality he was shown.

* * *

Roarke managed to pull two more layers off the next day, after his apprentices' lessons; a satisfying achievement, for all it had taken most of the day and left Nick so limp with the agony of his body's rebellion that the mage then had to carry him; not back to his room, but along a twisting path through the castle, down to its deeper depths, to a small, cavernous room lit with thick beeswax candles—lay him down of a stone table that seemed something out of a bard's tale of sacrifices and Great Being summoning but for the goose-down stuffed padding, and wring the paralyzing tension from his body with the lavender oil.

"Only two or three more, Ah think," Roarke promised quietly, leaning his weight into his hands as he stroked away the tightness that rendered Nick helpless.

"Eh? Ah,  _gods_ —" he hissed into the pillow beneath his head, fighting not to brace himself against the pain.

"Layers. Yer bind's near aboout off, lad. Ye'll be able tae walk around on yer own naow, an' yer magic'll start comin' oout."

"Roarke, yer killin' me." Nick's voice was tight. "T-thought massage was tae—" he bit back a moan, and panted thinly with the discomfort, "—feel gud."

"Nae when yer this tense, boy-o. Anything'll 'urt when yer locked up loike a bluidy keep." But he paused a minute, letting the younger man get his breath, his fingers tapping a gentle, soothing beat against Nick's abused shoulders.

The torture resumed a moment later, and not nearly soon enough, it wasn't pain but deep-seated ease that circled with his blood like fire.

Floating in a pool of drowsy warmth, with slick hands heating his muscles and turning them to pliable wax, he realized hazily that for the first time in memory, he felt perfectly safe and content. It was a heady, intoxicating sense, stronger than sweet mead and lighter than spun sugar.

"Legs tae, Nick," Roarke spoke softly, and was shocked when a muffled murmur of agreement returned. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth before the giver's eyes, he tugged Nick's braes down, baring the remainder of his back and legs.

Long, lean muscles lay here, neat, streamlined lines, delineated from their fellows even at rest. As with the rest of him, his legs were slim, well-formed, and bore only a light scattering of hair. His knees were as appealing as knees could be, if a bit knobby; his ankles were narrow enough around that Roarke could have circled them easily with his fingers, almost delicate, but for the knowledge that mage bones were stronger again by half than those of magicless folk.

A pretty form, well suited to him, the mage decided, dribbling warmed oil onto his skin. Clean, and still smelling of soap, from a bath taken early that morning, layered over with musky not-unpleasant male sweat, all of it encompassed but not quite overwhelmed by the soothing, slightly astringent scent of lavender.

And just as tight here as everywhere else, he noted, kneading the lines of those muscles, as Nick twitched with the return of mild discomfort, then relaxed again. How had he managed, Roarke had to wonder, living life constantly ready to fight or fly?

"Gently, gently, Nick," he murmured, half a dozen minutes later, lifting the man's neat, narrow foot with sure, kind hands, when the man startled from the doze he'd been slipping into.

Roarke restrained a chuckle at the breathless gasp that followed the pressure of his thumbs into one of the sensitive points under the elegant arch of Nick's foot. Each stroke had Nick's breath hitching slightly, his shoulders rolling as he arched against the table.

A feline indeed, one who arched and purred when petted properly, hissed and fled when angry or scared.

"Up, naow, mah lad," he said when he'd finished, helping Nick onto legs wobbly with relaxation, before leading him from the dark cavern into another, far larger and slightly better lit cave.

Steam rose in soft tendrils from what looked, to Nick's widened eyes, to be an underground lake.

"There's a 'eated stream tha' supplies this, on its way tae the Glass Lake. T'will 'elp take what's left o' yer tension away."

* * *

It was impossible, Nick thought hazily, when at last he could think again at all, sinking deeper into the wonderfully warm, dark water so that it lapped at the ends of his hair where it lay against the nape of his neck. It was impossible not to like the mage, irritating and audacious as he was. It was equally impossible, though he knew better, not to be warmed by the constant consideration for his well-being. But he was too tranquil at the moment to dwell on the fool he was making of himself, or that Roarke would doubtless do this for anyone in his situation.

He opened his eyes a bit, so he was watching the mage through his lashes. Roarke had eased into the steaming water as well, and lounged comfortably on the silky-smooth, rounded-out benches that lay under the water, leaning back against the wall of the bath with the nonchalant ease of a great cat at rest. His hair, long and dark in the low light, only glints of the red showing where the light caught, was loose, falling damply around his face to his shoulders. They were nice shoulders, Nick mused, tracing them visually beneath lowered lids, golden with the flickering candles and braziers. Thin shadows that might have been inked lines played at the farthest reaches of what he could see, but the mage wasn't turned at a proper angle for him to see more clearly than that.

There was a vague twinge of discomfort to the feeling, the appreciation of features intrinsically male—some part of him was faintly yelling for him to remember the last times—but warmth and relaxation had pushed it to the deeps of his mind.

Broader than his own, those shoulders fit the mage's long, muscled slenderness without lending themselves to the boniness of his own build. Nick's eyes trailed lower, to where the water ringed Roarke's chest, high up around his ribs. There was strength there, too—of the wiry, easy to hide behind cloth kind.

Still not enough there to lift a man as though he weighed little more than a sack of flour, though, to carry him. That's what it was to be full mage, he supposed, and felt something curl within him at the thought, distracting him.

Nick shifted uncomfortably, sending ripples echoing away and taking the sense of wellbeing with them. The magic Roarke claimed lived in him had been making itself known these past few days, stretching and uncurling from deep within his chest, as though it was testing the boundaries of his body. Only two or three more layers, the mage had promised. Then that strange sensation would be free. There was a terrifying thought. He could feel the promise of its strength. Everyone knew that magic at the best of times was hard to control, and this would be; he knew already he would have no command over it, when it was fully unbound.

Nick wasn't ready for this development, but there seemed no choice to be had.


	15. Chapter 15

The last three layers would be the most difficult to remove. He'd known that, of course, but confronted with it now, he was aghast at how impossible it seemed. They were complex, interwoven with one another, as had been the last two. They would have to come loose all at once, and there were safeguards far beyond anything he'd seen before. It looked like Greater Demon magic, liberally dosed with the conflicting traits of Eastern and Southern ties, all of it artfully jumbled and twisted, the top layers half-opaque to bare the tiniest hints of what lay beneath.

More than half of magic was guesswork and going with what felt right. This, Roarke thought, sitting back with a frown, one hand rising unconsciously to rub at the coppery stubble on his chin as he glared at the sketch he'd made of the thing, was going to be almost entirely so.

He didn't like it, not at all—the risk of harming Nick was too great. Any mistakes would be unacceptably costly and it was entirely possible his heart would give out under the strain. But the option to stop no longer remained. The bind had to come off, and quickly, before it killed him, or drove him mad, or any of the other consequences that had been craftily built into the bloody thing. The stakes now, at the deepest levels, with all the magic concentrated between the three, had risen to unimaginable reaches.

Even if Roarke placed him in a magic induced sleep, the likelihood of failure was uncomfortably high—higher, perhaps, than if he didn't. It was a terrible fate for a magic-user, for anyone, to never wake and fade slowly from life.

Greater Demon magic, he thought again. Gods, someone had hated Nick beyond comprehension, if they'd bargained with such a creature to produce a bind like the one he'd bourn and was still bearing.

The mage glanced at the sketches of the earlier layers, complete, now that he'd taken them fully apart and examined each facet, and detailed. The pattern, non-malevolent and static, remained, bound in the center of each. It was a signature of sorts, he had to think, presumably that of the Being who placed the bind in the first place.

But he had larger things to worry about now. Pain or sleep? Today or tomorrow? All at once, or was it possible to pull just the top off, and postpone until…?

Choices lay before him, none of them easy, all of them having to be made.

"Ah'll put ye intae sleep tae remove the last o' the bind," Roarke said, tugging open the large hardwood doors that led into the high-ceilinged hall where he'd removed the other layers. Gone now were the chairs, though, and it their place a heavy stone table. "Loike as no', once they're gone, ye'll come awake on yer own as yer magic comes oout."  _Or you'll never wake, and never feel the pain that comes with the waking._

"What'll happen?" His voice was calm, those cool silver eyes steady on the mage's. But his pulse throbbed a quick, visible tempo in his throat, betraying nerves.

"Tha' Ah canna tell." He laid a hand on Nick's shoulder, laying aside for later consideration the fact that the slighter man failed to even flicker an eyelash at the contact. Too focused, mayhaps. "Nick, if it's in mah power tae keep ye safe, Ah promise ye will be."

"An' if not, I'll ken you did everything you could," he nodded calmly, accepting the risk. Then those silver eyes narrowed on him. "You'll nae do somethin' foolish, will ye, if'n I canna be cured?"

Roarke remained silent, almost wary of the accuracy of the question.

Nick glared. "You've dependents, duties. Children." He didn't want Roarke giving his all in the face of impossibility, not when he hadn't more than a hint of the damage that could be done, and no idea at all how he could mitigate it.

"It willna come tae tha'."  _It had better not_. "There's naught in this world more protective than magic, lad, an' wild magic especially. T'is unloikely either o' us'll be killed."

Harm, on the other hand, to one or both of them was almost expected. There was a reason he'd ensconced Ghada and the children across the castle from this room, with strict orders to stay away until he or Nick emerged.

"I'm ready, in any case," Nick announced with a final glare.

Roarke nodded, and helped him jump up. He lay still, even though the chill of the stone beneath his bare back crept deep into his muscles and made his skin crawl with discomfort.

"A' ease, lad." Warm fingers cradled his head, alighting at his temples. The mage's voice had dropped and slowed to a low croon. "Relax, Nick, an' give yerself ova tae me. Close yer eyes, breathe in, an' naow oout. In, an' oout. Let yerself float—" the words faded, became indistinct and unimportant, then disappeared, leaving him in a silvery-purple fluid realm numbed of pain, fear or cold.

"There's mah lad," Roarke murmured, feeling Nick slip into the safe place where mortal agony could not reach. He hesitated only long enough to brush his lips once across the still man's forehead.

"Luck, Nicodemus, fer ye an' me." He was terrified they would need every ounce.

Then, pushing away debilitating emotion, he turned to his grim task.

Hours, it took, though he took no notice of the passing of time. Sweat trickled down his back, defying the vague chill of the room. Magic flared and clashed, as the traps on the bind were released, deadly and powerful, then he slid it away, and eased the threads of energy tying the bind to Nick. One section unlocked, then another. A third, then a fourth, as the sun sank unheeded below the horizon. Blood was demanded, and given; fire, wind, ice and earth called, utilized, and sent back again.

Slowly, painfully so, the final layers began falling away.

* * *

It was warm, where he was, and silent. There was no light, but he didn't need it, soothed by the benevolent darkness, and the subtle rocking, swaying motion he dimly perceived. It was as warm and close as the womb, without being claustrophobic or interrupted by the steady thump-thump-thump of a mother's heart echoing his own.

Heat disturbed him. It wasn't harsh, at first, but enough of a change to catch his notice. He wasn't sure how it was he noted the change—he seemed to lack a corporeal form—but it seemed not to matter how, so much as why. The heat was growing uncomfortable now, and something monstrous and sinuously shaped was winding around him like a constricting serpent, squeezing tighter and tighter still. He fought, struggling against the pain—it was sudden, biting, as though punishing him for the resistance—and felt himself dragged from the silvered-violet calm.

Awareness and awakeness came in one sudden bolt, bright and absolute. His chest still felt compressed, though there was nothing there; the iron bands wrapped so tight 'round were intangible. Weakness pervaded his body, making it an effort to open his eyes, but open them he did.

The room was dark—the sun had set and the glowing balls seemed to have shattered, violently, showering the room with glass. Many of the windows had as well, and the iron grids had been ripped away. Moonlight flooded in through one of the unbroken windows. One of the great pillars supporting the ceiling had several huge craters blown in the sides, while the others bore huge scratches, as though a dragon or some other great beast had vented its anger on them, and debris littered the floor like so many bodies.

"Gods," he whispered, only half-aware he'd spoken; fighting fatigue, he sat up, eyes wide at the destruction. "Roarke?"

His voice emerged as a hoarse croak, raspy and painful in his throat. Every muscle in his body ached as he scrambled from the table, and his knees refused to hold his weight when he jumped down, crumpling, instead, and sending him to the ground. Cursing virulently, he climbed back to his feet, knuckles whitening on the edge of the table with anger at the amount of effort it took.

"Roarke!" this time, it was more akin to a roar, a demand that the mage answer, echoing around the wreckage of the room, while iron-hard eyes scanned the room, fearing that they would find the mage as broken as the hall.

"A' ease, Nick, Ah'm alroight," came the calm reply after a long moment, from the far end, where the training hall was swathed in shadows. "A bit stuck, tho'."

Frowning, cursing the weakness that made walking more than two steps at a time difficult and painful, he picked his way across the floor, skirting the chunks of stone and sharp blades of glass, into the deep shadows. "Where—"

"'ere," Roarke's voice sounded from a couple of yards to his right. Nick turned toward the deepest shadow, just as faint light erupted from Roarke's palm, flickering slightly. There stood the mage; pale, bloodied, and bruised, but none-too-badly hurt. Iron bars—they appeared to be the frames from the shattered windows—caged him, forcing him to remain quite still, lest remaining shards of razor-sharp glass further slice at him.

His lips quirked wryly at the stunned expression in Nick's eyes. "A bit embarrassin', in't it? Bu' Ah can safely tell ye ye've the strength of a full mage, lad."

"What—what happened?" he gestured helplessly, encompassing the cage, the debris, all of it.

"Less than could've, Ah'd figure, an' more than nothin'. Is there ana way from oout there tha' ye kin see tha'll get me oout o' 'ere?" Roarke had shielded himself, when that final attack came, and magic had retaliated deviously, by wrapping the iron and glass as close as possible, then dissipating, as though aware he couldn't hold the shield forever, and wouldn't have the strength to free himself.

Nick looked, and found not an inch of the metal that wasn't solid-looking or spiked liberally with glass. "Nay, none that I can see. But can't you jist," he gestured again, a jump of his hands indicating force, "…an' get yourself out?"

"Nay. Ah'm near aboout drained dry." As thought to prove it, the light in his palm wavered ominously.

Nick felt his stomach clench, fear and guilt. That sounded disturbingly permanent. "Is—is there anathing I can…?"

"Aye, there is, actually," Roarke agreed, apparently unconcerned with the developments, and gingerly extended his unoccupied hand through the shard-studded gaps in the metal. "Ye can share some o' yers wit' me. T'will be enough, Ah think, tae get me oout."

"How…" but it didn't matter, really, so he offered his hand.

"Ye've nae the control, yet, tae feed yer power tae me, sae Ah'll work through ye, an' channel yer magic tae boost mine."

"It's tha' simple?"

"Whell, nay, bu' tha's more or less the process," Roarke replied with a wan grin, and took his hand. Nick felt, immediately, something jump within him, furious at the invasion of space. The mage's face tightened, went fierce, his eyes reflecting black hell-fire. The presence within snarled and struggled as warmth flooded through Nick's veins, calm and disciplined, and seemed, after another few minutes of fruitless denial, to submit and allow itself to be manipulated. But the sudden surge of it, smooth and effortlessly controlled, had him reeling dizzily, reaching with his free hand for the wall to steady himself.

"Breathe deep an' slow," Roarke advised absently, concentrating on the subtleties of the magic he was working. It was very much like Dórainn's, he thought, potent and not easily convinced to submit to its crafter. It would buck him in a heartbeat if he let it, and probably try to kill him, again, doing it.

Such was the nature of wild magic, and over the years, he'd worked plenty, much of it his own.

A firm mental hand on the magic, he turned his attention to the iron and glass surrounding him, looking for weak points and junctions. When he found them, it took only a moment and a few gentle bursts of power in the right places to decimate the cage.

That done, Roarke released Nick's magic back to him.

He regretted it immediately, as every ache and pain chose that moment to complain, bitterly, and his knees trembled as magic fatigue sang through him, its voice as sharp as blades and abrasive as pumice. He locked them, and bent over to brace his hands against them just to be safe, as though he sought to catch his breath, only to wince when the movement stretched the sore, tight muscles of his back.

"Are you alright?" Nick finally managed, leaning against the wall to hold himself up. It felt as though a ball of lightning had just lodged itself beneath his ribs and was draining every ounce of energy from his bones.

"Aye, jist exhausted. Ye?"

"Tha'd be the way tae put it."

Propping each other up, they stumbled their way to the door, and were shoving it open when Alasdair, with Ghada at his heels, strode down the hall, long black robes rippling and flaring with the forcefulness of his passage.

He stopped in front of them, his harsh, lean face seemingly impassive, if one could ignore the tightness around his lips, or the arctic razor-edge of his eyes.

"You're completely drained, aren't you." It wasn't a question, the way the words whipped out.

Either phenomenally brave, or equally foolhardy, Roarke grinned at him. "Ye could put 't tha' way, Ah suppose."

"It would appear, in your enthusiasm, you conveniently forgot to call me."

Roarke failed to look properly chagrined, and lied without compunction. "Ah didna want tae pull ye from yer family a' such a time."

"Instead, I receive panicked fire-calls from your apprentices that require me to wind-walk here from home. I'm sure I needn't tell you I'm not particularly enamored of that method of transportation. In any case," he turned those steel-colored eyes on Nicodemus. "You need the bare basics, tonight."

Nick managed to blink at him, blurry-minded with fatigue.

"Dór, 'e's exhausted."

"I don't intend to teach him runic theory, Roarke," Alasdair snapped. "He cannot be near the children as he is now, or anyone else. Though I can't think how you've missed it, you've a bloody late-born mage under your roof, one just realized."

He was barely comprehending the words, and the dark-haired mage's angry, biting eyes were blurred and out-of-focus, but the tone he recognized. Angry, sarcastic, harsh; it was too close to bitter, cruel viciousness; nothing anyone who lived under this roof needed to be exposed to. Nick's head came up, his body angled in front of the mage's, as though the words would become darts he could intercept. His voice rasped, growling out a single protest before it failed on him; "Dinna."

Ghada stepped forward, a tiny, unshakable keeper-of-the-peace, even as Alasdair's eyebrows winged high in surprise. "Nothing needs happen here, in the hallway. We go to the kitchen.  _Assayed_  Roarke and his guests will eat, and drink. It will help. And everything will be sorted."

Exchanging communicative glances, both mages agreed. Nick, aching, cold, worn out, and desperately confused, followed, supported by and supporting Roarke like two deceased trees leaning against one another, not yet fallen.

He could have whimpered in gratitude at the warmth of the kitchen—a massive cavernous room, lit by those odd magic glass balls and the fire still crackling cheerfully. It seeped kindly into his bones, relieving some of the deep-seated ache. There was a table, large and simply made, thick and sturdy, it's clean surface deep gold with years of polishing and scored with dings, cuts, stains. They were seated around it, but for Ghada, who bustled about with mugs and plates, heaping food still warm from dinner upon them. He watched her for a few minutes, eyes drawn to her motions, gliding on the floaty weightlessness that seemed to have replaced his mind.

"Nick." His attention, such as it was, returned to his look-alike. Perhaps those other silver eyes softened; just as easily a trick of the light. He blinked at them. "Do you understand that you need to contain and control your magic tonight?"

He nodded, considering the words with the same drifty solemnity of a man well passed inebriation, but not so far from sobriety he's forgotten his own name.

"Here,  _Assayed_  Nick," Ghada put an earthenware mug of dark tea before him, and a plate beside it. "It will help." She placed another cup in front of Roarke, whose face had gone waxy-white, his black eyes sunken into their sockets, half-lidded, and smudged beneath with purple-grey. Despite that, he lounged in his chair, cradling the mug, completely at ease and content to allow Alasdair to do the talking. More plates loaded with more food than the table's uninterested occupants could eat found their way to its surface before Ghada quietly excused herself on some pretext of checking on the children. Roarke nodded absently after her.

Intrigued by the fresh-smelling steam rising from its depths, Nick lifted the cup with hands that seemed uncommonly distant from the rest of his body, and sipped, burning his mouth. Sweetness burst on his tongue, making him wince at its intensity. There was far too much honey in this…brew. But it cleared his head a bit, chasing away some of the wool encasing his brain. Under the honey, he could taste the same strange medley of flavors that he'd been given in Alasdair's cottage, when the first layer of the bind had been removed. He set the mug down, at a small but significant distance from his hand.

"Holding the magic in is the first step of control—that's all you need for tonight. It won't be unduly difficult; you're safe here, and the magic will recognize that. It will also recognize your fatigue."

"I's alive, then?" there was an odd, uncomfortable thought, having another being live within him.

"No, and it doesn't think for itself, necessarily. It reacts like a reflex when you are alarmed or in danger—like catching something aimed at your face. You control it, but not always consciously."

Nick nodded, struggling to absorb so much information.

"If it does stir, however, you have to recognize it, and take it in hand."

"Ye felt 't when Ah took control, di' ye nae?" Roarke inquired suddenly, his eyes never opening more than half. "'ow 't bucked a few times, then settled."

"Aye." That he remembered clearly enough.

"Tha's wot ye can expect, 'ntil ye an' it are used tae one another."

 _Wonderful._  "Sae 'ow do I control it?"

"The same way you exert control over anything, including yourself. You decide what is the proper course for the magic—whether that course is expending the energy, or having it settle, to be used later—and then you will it to occur, and continue to insist until the magic has done what you wanted it to. How did you train your horse, or learn how to ride?"

"Ah." Now he understood, or partially. A curious form of dread curled in his stomach—the desire to try, colliding sharply with the fear of the consequences of failure. Magic was on a completely different level than training an animal, even Tala, and was miles and miles from controlling himself.

"Just be aware that what happens to the magic has a direct effect on you."

Dread curled sharper; he pushed it away. This wasn't something he could change—he'd have to live with it, now.

"Let 'im try 't," Roarke suggested. His eyes were completely closed now, his face a little greyer. Nick eyed him with concern. "Nick, ye'll stay calm an' keep 'is instructions in mind. Ye'll likely want tae stand, away from anathing—t'is a shock. D—Alasdair, when yer ready."

Nick felt his heart leap as the force—the magic—within him stirred abruptly, disturbed by different magic. Like liquid lightening, the power poured through his veins, tingling its way up each nerve. It seemed his vision changed, blurred and then sharpened, and suddenly colors marked what had only been invisible force. There was his, the pale, silvery shade of feeble moonlight on snow, coiled tightly around him, defensive and vivid. Alasdair's was paler still in color, bright and pulsing like heatless flame, controlled effortlessly. A single tendril was extended, brushing lightly against his. His magic writhed angrily, leaping, as though it would try to strike the tendril. Nick frowned slightly at that, and reached for the power. Warily, it seemed, it came, jolting away now and then, as would a nervous cat, but at last, it lay quietly under his outstretched hand. Alasdair's power pulled away, and he, intrigued, looked around. The entire kitchen was awash with color, an aura. Pale blues, reds, Alasdair's white, green, gold. Those were very pale, barely visible. Others layered over top them: an almost opalescent scarlet, shimmery gold-grey, brilliant blue-green, and, seemingly the strongest of all, the vivid violet shade of amethysts. It was everywhere, that color, even in the stones of the walls themselves.

And there was the source of it, sitting quite still, his black eyes closed. The purple energy flickered weakly around him, like a fire fighting not to go out.

"Tone't daown, Nick. Ye've got control o' it, naow put 't away."

He nodded, and turned his attention inwards, herding the flood of magic back, deep inside himself. After a moment of puzzlement, he pictured a room, with a great door that only he could open, and hustled the power into it, before closing the barrier with an echoing thud.

He, as Roarke had less than an hour ago, regretted it within a moment. With the magic went all the strength in his body, while fatigue and pain crushed down on him from every direction. Before he could tumble off his feet, though, a chair was behind him, under him.

"Godsdamnit, Roarke," Alasdair growled, turning towards the elder mage, eyes flashing reproach. "You are going to kill yourself. I shouldn't have to tell you that."

One of Roarke's coppery brows managed a feeble quarter-inch lift, and a few of his fingers flickered in a dismissive gesture. "Ge' 'im tae bed, will ye?"

Alasdair muttered a couple of nasty curses, but rose fluidly, and helped Nick to his feet, keeping him on them when he faltered.

"Will 'e be alright?" Nick managed, once they were outside the kitchen. Concern for the mage left behind was strong enough to block, for the moment, his discomfort at being touched, even to accept desperately needed aid.

"As long as he doesn't do anything else with magic, he should be fine." He didn't add that there were few guarantees with magic, or with Roarke, but then, he could see that he didn't need to, that Nick was well aware. "I'll see to it that he gets what he needs."

"Wot…wot's wrong wit' 'im?"

Alasdair flicked a glance down; he, like Roarke, had half a head's height on Nick. "Magic fatigue. He's used most of his available magic, and cut into the energy that powers his life. It's not particularly dangerous," he assured at the panicked expression in Nick's eyes, "provided he rests, and allows the energy to restore itself. He's well aware of what needs to be done, Nick, as am I."

"He's in good hands, then." They were in his wing now, nearly at his door.

"Yes," Alasdair replied, opening the door for him. "You'll be alright from here?"

Nick nodded, and managed to wait until the door closed with a quiet bump before stumbling to the bed and falling face-down on it without taking the time to kick off his boots or peel out of his braes.


	16. Chapter 16

"Have you recently received a blow to the head?"

Roarke blinked, or almost did; one eye cracked open, considering Dórainn. "Why?"

"I'm attempting to justify blatant stupidity, and haven't yet managed it. Have you, by some chance, accidentally consumed henbane, or nightshade? Another hallucinogenic substance, perhaps?"

"Nae, nae, an' nae. 'e's taken care o'?" His eyes were closed again, both of them.

"Unconscious in bed, as we speak. He'll sleep like the dead for eight to ten hours and wake up starving. Damn it, Roarke, what possessed you?"

He was quiet a moment as he assessed all his reasons for doing what he had, while his brain railed at him for thinking at all by pounding like a war drum. The reasons, as far as he could tell, still held. But he hadn't meant, exactly, to alienate Dórainn.

"'t would've killed 'im, in less time than Ah thought ye could get 'ere. Ah didna think o' windwalkin'." It was a skill seldom seen, taking powers of concentration and will sufficiently beyond the usual ken to make it rare, even among master mages. It wasn't a surprise, however, that his serious, intense student had mastered the art of it, for all his relative youth.

"A fire-call wouldn't have gone amiss." Unmollified, but recognizing that Roarke, whatever his reasons had been, was still convinced that their urgency in implementation had been necessary, Dórainn sat, resigned to his ill temper. "Drink that, don't play with it," he gestured shortly at the mug cradled in Roarke's hands, "then we'll get you to bed. I'll check on you and Nick both, every few hours."

He was exhausted, and the fatigue went bone deep, to the point of throbbing pain. It had been years since he'd given that much energy, all in a single go. He was fighting, even now, the urge to just drop into soothing sleep, there in the hard, not-particularly comfortable chair. It was a bad idea, he knew; at least until he was horizontal and on something reasonably soft, because once he did give in to sleep, he'd not be moving again until his magic had been sufficiently restored for him to function. It could be days, he knew, before he surfaced.

But even battling such overwhelming tiredness couldn't keep him from smiling, or feeling the thrill of paternal warmth. "Yer a gud lad."

Dórainn cocked a brow and angled a perturbed glance at him that he didn't see, but didn't dignify the comment with a response. Instead, he contemplated the enigma that was Roarke's newest house-guest. The prickly, touch-shy Highlander had grown fond enough of Roarke to attempt to defend him, to worry about his well-being. How much of that was perceived guilt or fear, the Demon Mage didn't know, but it was interesting all the same—as was his mage-master's apparent interest in Nick.

"He doesn't seem so uncomfortable, these days," he remarked, and sat back to gauge Roarke's response.. Roarke's accent had become so thick as to be nigh unintelligible, he was all but limp in the chair-when Roarke's guard was lowered like this, and his usually sharp mind struggled to put two and two together, now, he knew, was the time to extract any information he wanted. And the twinge of guilt was insignificant beside the curiosity. "Not as nervous."

"Nick?"

"Yes." He watched with narrowed eyes as the other mage lifted his mug, handy prop that it was, with hands that trembled faintly, but said nothing.

"Aye. 't 'elps, Ah think, tha' we're nae longer attached a' the hip, he an' Ah."

Dórainn nodded speculatively, but wasn't convinced. "You aren't sleeping with him yet?"

"N—" Roarke choked on the liquid, dark eyes flying open, exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "Dórainn!" Blood flooded into parchment-white cheeks.

The man smirked at him, highly amused by the reaction. "Come now, Roarke, you didn't think Rapunzel and I had found the children in the woods? It will surprise you, then, that I'm fully aware that sex occasionally occurs between two consenting adults."

There was nothing, Roarke learned abruptly, more mortifying than discussing one's sexual activities with one's full-grown child, or contemplating the child's. And while he considered making sure the youths he came in contact with understood that lovers of either sex were perfectly fine and would be accepted both a duty, a right, and a reward of parenting, to be caught years later in the practice was, though he acknowledged the hypocrisy,  _highly_  embarrassing.

"Well?" Dórainn's eyes gleamed with wicked laughter.

"Ah'm—Ah'm nae discussin' this wit' ye." He strengthened his voice, chasing away the strangled quality, and shook his head, a solid refusal. And wondered with vague desperation, as the pounding headache began to return, what had happened to the years of careful discretion he'd practiced.

"Ah, so you haven't. Cináed's loss."

If he'd taken another sip, he'd have choked on that as well. "Ye started a bet wit' Cináed? Over  _tha'_?" That left the realm of mere embarrassment and tumbled headlong into one of humiliation.

"Certainly not. Sorcha started it." He considered the expression on Roarke's face, and some of his amusement faded. "There's more there, isn't there. It's not just physical."

"Ah trying tae figure oot exactly 'ow  _ye_  figured 't oot." And he didn't mean the attraction to Nick, which, thank you, was indeed more than simple physical attraction.

"Years of observation at close quarters, and a healthy dose of intuition. Sorcha confirmed it for me, many years ago. Roarke," Dórainn frowned, suddenly quite worried. "You're not…ashamed, or some foolishness like that?"

"Nae, lad, nae ashamed. Surprised, tho'. T'is nae somethin' Ah tell around." Not telling had never been a conscious decision, simply habit, because it wasn't that he preferred only men, but appreciated both genders for themselves. But it smacked nastily of mistrust, he realized, that Dórainn had learned from lips other than his. "Yer nae feelin' insulted, tha' Ah didna tell ye?"

"Not in the least. It never came up between us before now. I will inquire as to what you intend to do about Nick."

"Teach 'im 'ow tae use—"

"No, not his magic; I meant him, and this-that you have toward him."

"Ah'm perfectly capable o' teachin' 'im withoout takin' advantage o' 'im." He winced internally as the comment hit home, and stirred a part of him that wasn't particularly kind or understanding. That response had held more bite than he'd consciously put there.

"I didn't say that to offend you, or suggest you keep your hands off him. You'll do what you feel is right, I'm sure—that's not what I'm worried about. But keep in mind, Roarke, you are entitled to your own happiness, too. You and he may suit very well indeed; you won't know, will you, until it's given a chance."

Roarke blinked, considered, and blinked again. It could be fatigue, he decided. Best to ask. "Di' ye jist give me yer blessin'?"

"Well. That wasn't precisely my intent, but, yes, I suppose I did."

* * *

Nick, as predicted, woke late the next morning, groggy and sore and starving. He staggered to the kitchen in an unaccustomed state of disarray, hair mussed and clothing well wrinkled. He discovered that Alasdair had remained at the castle, and would, as he'd promised Roarke, tutor the children, aid Nick in learning to control the power within him, and keep an eye on his mage master while he recovered. He was as always, calm, collected, and faintly sarcastic.

It didn't keep the worry from his eyes, though, and Nick certainly wasn't the only one who saw it in the next days. Ghada hovered, fussing over the hale and healthy members of the household. Móra was surly and jittery, so that she would snap one moment, and be pacing, pinch-faced, the confines of the room the next. Allaidh grew quiet and pensive, and withdrew, watching the adults with wary eyes. Kenna clung, to Ghada, to either Mora or Allaidh. Occasionally, even to Nick. And as the week dragged on, the hovering increased, the worrying, and the bickering, as the two older children fought, in lowered voices and with the careless viciousness of children more and more frequently, the clinging increased until one could not walk without watching for a small blonde shadow. There was an air to the castle, an uncomfortable one, of having been frozen in time and space.

Nick, meanwhile, well used to the feeling of helplessly awaiting fate, unconsciously did what he'd always done, and built himself a routine.

Up, and out of bed before the sun rose. It was then, when the cool of predawn nipped and reminded him he wasn't so very far from Cabhadh-làir, where snow still lay, though lightly now on the ground, that he was especially grateful for the banked coals in the hearth, and the warming rugs on the ground. The book that had been the previous night's reading material was righted, page carefully marked with a scrap of thin, well-loved leather, the wasted candles pried off their holders and set aside. He'd swing the kettle (Roarke had seen to it that he received one after the first few days, to save Nick the discomfort of asking and then waiting, and Ghada the effort of brewing and bringing it) over the fire, let it heat first for shaving what little beard had accumulated overnight, then come to boil for tea while he pulled on clothes and boots. The steeping took but two minutes more, and with a tiny amount of honey added, he gulped the caffeine gratefully, before he made the first of the day's series of spot checks on the sleeping mage, then set out for the barn, now tailed by his small, pattering-stepped shade.

The walk, so early, was quiet and dim, the scones on the walls, with their pale, light-emitting globes, gleamed with muted light. The others were asleep, or at least ensconced in their rooms still. Roarke's rooms were a stark, yet seemingly comfortable set of chambers, several long, wide windows bathing them with light regardless of the time of day, in what must have been an intriguing bit of architectural design, furnished sparsely but not carelessly. The man, meanwhile, laid motionless, save for his breathing, in the large bed of the bedchamber.

And the stable, when he reached it, was equally quiet, though it brightened with his entrance. It was, at first, an odd feeling, being quite sure that no hustlers peeped from the other stalls, which stood awaiting occupants, muttering beneath their breaths. Here, there seemed to be no human helpers at all, and no evidence of them. There was only him, and Kenna, who remained quiet and solemn, and spoke but rarely, her sweet, piping voice answering direct queries.

Yet Tala's stall was always clean and freshly bedded with straw when he arrived in the mornings, and too, in the evenings. He retained the right to feed his gelding, though, as well as groom and exercise him. Usually, the rides were short, around the sheltered courtyard a'twix castle and stable at walk, at trot, at canter, and down again, more for his watcher's benefit than his or his horse's. Nick usually let the destrier crop at grass as the sun topped the horizon, snatching at the thickening green carpet before he led him inside again. The little girl sometimes came to stand beside him, leaning into his side lightly.

He would, he knew, have to speak to Roarke about a safe grazing area for the grey, when the mage woke. It wasn't feasible, to leave poor Tala locked in his stall, however roomy it was, when lovely grass was growing just outside.

And if he didn't think too long on the 'if' that hid so well behind 'when', he didn't believe it cowardly.

The pleasantest part of his morning thus completed, he returned to the castle, made his second surreptitious once-over of Roarke's still motionless body, this time joined by Kenna, and then descended with her to the kitchen, nominally for breakfast. Ghada insisted he join the rest of them, and as interloper, guest and Kenna's chosen temporary guardian, it wasn't something he could deny her.

That the food was delicious, if sometimes rather foreign, certainly didn't make him more reluctant, though it was difficult at times to assure her he usually ate little in the mornings.

A largely silent meal, with neither man saying anything as they sipped their second cup each of tea, and both apprentices hungry, sleepy, and out-of-sorts, it suited him fine. He could retreat to his corner of the table with his laden plate (despite all protests) and his mug, and be left to his own devices. Alasdair, he noticed, had a similar out-look at the notion of breaking one's fast so early, and could usually be found leaning to the side of the hearth, well out of Ghada's way, an earthenware cup cradled between his fingers.

* * *

Lessons came after breakfast, for the children and him both, just after Alasdair returned from slipping away to make the third verification of the day that Roarke's condition had yet to change. Kenna, whose magic wasn't yet that of a full mage's and required a different skill set entirely—plants responded with alacrity to her touch—received her lessons later, or from Ghada.

An odd feeling, being back in the schoolroom, especially when his first experience had been grudging and of little enough use, save that it taught him to read, write his letters, and be able to calculate simple numbers, and very little else. Alasdair was a good teacher—it had surprised him, a bit, until he remembered that the man had children and an apprentice of his own. Both children were learning runes—deadly boring stuff, they complained (well, Móra complained, between long, brooding silences, and agreement occasionally gleamed in Allaidh's eyes), but both settled to their work with little more than the occasional mutter.

Nick's task was practicing, over and over, how to draw forth and send away his magic, until the mage was satisfied. As the sennight crept on, and he grew a little more comfortable with the powers he shared a body with, Alasdair had him moving on to actually manifesting it in simple forms.

Lessons ended after midday. Ghada had prepared a repast for the children, and anyone else who wanted it. He didn't, and wouldn't, despite her protestations he was too thin—he knew that, didn't he? Nick escaped, his repeated claim of a headache only partially untrue, and slipped away to the West Wing, through the winding corridors there, 'til he found himself against in front of the large, deceptively simple door. Still no change from the one beyond it, so away he took himself, back to his own room or the library or to the stable again. Alasdair or Ghada would also check on him soon, and then Mora or Allaidh would sneak over, one or the other of them, and then report to whomever had drawn the shorter straw and Kenna, if she'd abandoned her favored adults in preference for them by that point.

A bloody week, this'd gone on, every day tightening the permanent knot that had formed in his abdomen a little more. How much longer could it possibly go on before it became dangerous for Roarke? Was there some sign, he wondered, that would appear, to tell them whether Roarke would pull out of the sleep or simply drift away on it, as he'd read in the books from the library? Would Alasdair even tell them before it was too late?

Deep breaths quashed rising dread. As of yet, there had been nothing to indicate his fears had any founding. And the books had indicated that the greater a mage's power expenditure, the longer the recuperation period. It could well be only that, and nothing more sinister. A lot of magic had been used – he'd gone back and examined the training room himself, coaxed enough of his power out that he could see the residue of it, and not merely feel, vaguely, the opposing pushes of power. Roarke's amethyst purple was imprinted everywhere, the debris, the walls, the glass, the table he'd lain on—Nick had seen the faint glow of it on himself too, threading through his hair, on his hands, streaked across his chest and down his sides. His silver had been spread liberally, too, and another, darker yet opalescent pewter color marked the hall. It wasn't surprising Roarke had used so much magic.

He settled himself, calmed, and put the worry away, pressing chilly fingertips to temples that throbbed. There was nothing he could do for the mage. It was something he would have to accept.

* * *

Knowing he needed to accept the inevitable, Nick decided an hour later, was all well and good. It wasn't, however, helping him arrive any closer to actually  _achieving_  acceptance. And as his boot heels tapped softly on stone, following the same path he'd been following every few hours for the past week, he knew Roarke's stillness, his lack of response, wasn't something he was going to be able to sit back and casually allow to happen around him.

The mage's body hadn't shifted in the hour since Nick's last visit—he hadn't really expected it to, not after so many days of expecting change and being disappointed by the lack of it. He sat on the edge of the massive bed, observing a moment longer. The handsome, sharply-boned face, stubbled with days' worth of beard coppering his cheeks, framed by fire-red silk, was a mask of calm, lacking the animation that thrust forward the force of Roarke's personality, his strength and willpower. But his fingers were warm, when Nick lifted his hand off the bedspread and cradled it between his two, and the pulse at his wrist strong and sure. Two days ago, it had been cool, his pulse, though steady, had been notably fainter. His chest, shirtless beneath the sheets, rose and fell in undisturbed rhythm.

Nick sat there in silence for a long while, for the first time in days, thinking nothing, just letting his mind float. His fingers moved, independent of his mind, tracing the bones of Roarke's hand, the lines that bisected his palm.

"What di' 't mean, tha' kiss?"

The question, voiced aloud, made him blink, and frown. He hadn't meant to speak out loud, hadn't realized his thoughts had drifted there. A glance at the mage told him Roarke slept on, chest rising and falling gently, oblivious.

"What are you doin' to me?" the second question held a hint of desperation in it, as memories of the kiss returned, fresh and clear, and closely followed by other, still-warmer memories of the incident in the stable—that hadn't been 'just magic', regardless of what Roarke said.

A seduction, he realized a minute later, highly perturbed, staring at the sleeping mage, implemented slowly, so that he wouldn't guess until it was too late.

But the most terrifying part was how little some of him seemed to take offense. Notable parts of his anatomy and their corresponding parts in his mind shrugged the intent off, surged forward at the notion of seduction; his, Roarke's, whomever's—that, however little he appreciated the interest, he expected. It was the rational portions of himself, the ones that weren't currently withdrawing warily to examine or weeping quietly with terror at the notion of trying this again, the ones that actually spent a moment or two on the thought of—

Those were quite frightening, and had him sliding away from the bed, rising to pace toward the door. They also made up the bit that had him spinning on his heel for another circuit of the room, rather than walking through the door and high-tailing it down the hallway.

The relationships—ha—of his past had a few key factors alike. Brevity, emotion (or, rather, a distinct lack thereof, with his preferences running toward completely absent in both himself and his partner), and an ability to put large amounts of distance between him and the other party involved, be that distance geographical or social. They were begun at infrequent intervals; generally when his body could no longer stand it, and demanded its needs be met; and rarely lasted more than a night or two.

None of those requirements would be met with Roarke, with a possible exception of the first. There would be emotion—they were already present in him, already swirling, confusing and difficult to deal with. Roarke's emotions…well, who knew? The mage seemed capable of entering a purely physical union that lasted only hours or days. But he seemed just as capable of entering an arrangement, drawing it out, twisting it up, and making it mean something.

And distance? A joke. The 'basics' of controlling his magic would take months—at the least. Years, possibly, if he wanted to be able to walk into a city or a village and not worry he'd harm someone inadvertently. There would be no distance, no escape if a…sexual liaison went afoul with Roarke.

But.

He couldn't seem to force himself past the 'but', couldn't make the decision to put it entirely from mind. It was as though he'd been branded, and bound to remember the overwhelming heat and arousal that Roarke's touch had brought. It wasn't something Nick had experienced before—sex had been merely a need to be fulfilled, a release of tension. Passion had been sparse, and satisfaction faintly hollow. It certainly hadn't been a firestorm, nor had climax ever come so quickly and effortlessly.

Magic? Perhaps.

It seemed everything was because of magic these days. He didn't know enough about the blasted stuff to know if—if love spells, or potions, or whatever—were even possible, The thought of it terrified. But he didn't think it was magic that had his pulse surging, or that had him jittering in his own skin. One way or another, the blame for that could be laid squarely at the mage's feet.

He wheeled around again, glaring at the unconscious man, and stalked back toward the bed. An impatient hand snatched up the one that lay so limply on the duvet, immediately and without thought gentling.

"You could, at the verra least, be awake an' whell, if yer going tae drive me mad, you bloody bastard."

Briefly, wildly, Nick considered shaking him briskly by the shoulders. The sudden burst of manic energy passed, though, and a helpless sense of stoic resignation took its place, so instead he dropped back onto the edge of the bed, mentally exhausted by the whirling circles his mind had pursued, off and on for so many days. A sigh, silent and heartfelt, slid out of him unnoticed, and he folded abruptly over the slack hand he held, touching his forehead to it as he sought to press his face to his knees, force himself to  _think_. The hand, long-fingered and lean, didn't so much as twitch, but it was warm, and soothing against the cool of his forehead, over the nagging ache that had plagued him for hours.

Straightening, he carefully placed Roarke's hand aside once more, and shifted, that he was standing. Something, some inner thread, well-buried and inexplicable, snapped gently, the recoil a subtle sting. Silver eyes narrowed at it, then closed, and he braced himself on a hand, to lean over and mimic Roarke's gesture so many days ago, before the bind had been removed, before, once again, things had changed; laying his lips along the mage's, once, twice, and then retreating.

"Wake up soon, Roar—"

His words and a muffled yelp strangled him, when black eyes beneath him snapped open. He'd have jerked backwards, away, but for the restraining hands, so recently limp, suddenly and strongly closing around his upper arms, anchoring him. Two short moves had their positions reversed on the bed, sheets tangling between them, so Roarke loomed over him, and he lay hapless beneath, trapped by the mage's weight and grip. Magic flared, invisible purple clashing against defensive silver, and blanketed them both, pinning the newfound power in Nick just as securely as his physical form was restrained. And there they stood, a frozen tableau, he on the very edges of panic, while Roarke blinked away sleep.

"Nick?" Sensations muted by exhaustion and unconsciousness had managed, at last, to trickle through, had alerted him several minutes ago that there was another presence near him. Instinct had reacted, when pressure against his hand and then something brushing across his face proved to his body that his mind was still moving too slowly. Now it was starting to reassert itself, taking in the strange scene around him.

Unless he was still asleep. T'was possible, that. The dreams brought on by magic fatigue tended to be vivid and fantastical.

No, he thought a moment later, when Nicodemus nodded, not a dream. A dream wouldn't have embarrassment tinting it's cheeks, nor would it be twitching with discomfort at the nearness of his body, trying, furtively, to escape. Were this a dream, the moonstone-in-silver eyes would be gleaming with something other than trepidation; the twitching and blushing would have different causes.

Still, it was an interesting predicament to wake to. Not an unwelcome one, not at all, as his hips were wedged nicely between Nick's slim thighs, and, though they were separated by layers of cloth, he could feel what he believed might well be semi-erectness from the man beneath him. The man, more importantly, who'd recently been bending so close that their lips may certainly have brushed. And if their lips had, indeed, touched, he thought, hiding the wicked grin that threatened to surface, it was  _Nick_  who initiated the contact, not he.

Roarke lifted his magic from Nick's, felt with satisfaction the tensile strength of his powers renewed, and smiled in truth at the sudden glimmer of hope in his captive's eyes, when they darted past him toward the door, at the prospect of freedom. Nick wouldn't escape so easily.

"So, mah lad, ye missed me, Ah take't?" He shifted slightly, taking enough of his weight that he wouldn't crush Nicodemus, but not so much that the man wouldn't feel where they were touching, and be aware that  _every_  part of him had woken.

Nick flushed deeper still, the color charming on his pale complexion, and seemed to struggle for something to say that would save him.

"Must 'ave, or ye'd nae go sae verra red. Will ye welcome me properly, then, or shall Ah take mah welcome?" In the Dèan Laighe Leis an Fhuachd, loved ones were embraced upon first sight, hugged and kissed welcome on a return. Even South of the Deibh Pigeán Mountains, it was a custom that was much approved of.

Pretty eyes widened slightly, and black pupils dilated, darkening and heating the silver 'til it glowed. "Wot?" Nick's voice was a croak, as though all the air in his lungs had fled.

"Oh, Ah think ye ken wot, boy-o. Nay?" He paused a moment, and the amusement in black eyes deepened when Nick stared back, frozen by implications and uncertainty.

"Nae matter," the mage murmured, and dipped his head, copper-silk falling around their two faces, trailing lightly across Nick's cheeks as he tilted to avoid bumping noses like a fumbling lad with his first lover. The subtle drag against his cheek as their faces brushed and his incoming beard scrapped against Nick was more than tickly, less than pain, enough to sensitive both their nerves. He heard the swift gasp of breath as his lips settled warmly over the younger man's, and smiled when, tentatively, Nick began to respond, his eyelashes sweeping against Roarke's cheekbone as his eyes closed, the better to feel.

It was Nick who pulled away, gasping and flushed. He'd forgotten to breathe; or not kissed often enough or deeply enough to know the trick of it. Roarke shook his head slightly, and bent again, ghosting a soft string of butterfly-light kisses across the strong bones of Nick's features, which had been presented so nicely when he'd turned away, until he turned back in defense, some syllable of protest rising, and the mage could steal his lips a moment longer.

Roarke took it no further than that, though both men bore insistent signs of arousal, and pulled away before Nick's panic, lurking so close under the pleasure he could very nearly taste it, could flare in his eyes. He gave in, only a little, to the urge to stroke the man, brushing the backs of two fingers down his cheek, twisting them to follow the line of his jaw, and gripping it lightly, that he could place one chaste kiss on his forehead. Then he backed away, rising and freeing Nick.

And watched, entertained, as the younger man flung himself from the bed, struggling with the bedclothes, to his feet. Sable hair, the luxurious consistency of satin, stuck out in ruffled points. His clothes were as rumpled as they have been if the mage had actually removed them in favor of the flesh beneath. He was disheveled, pleasingly so, and better yet, he seemed unaware that the nervous hands he plowed through that hair wasn't flattening it, but mussing it further, and the plucking at his tunic to settle it only made the wrinkles stand out all the more sharply. Nick hadn't yet detected the flush caused by the slight irritation his bristly chin had left, trailing across one cheek, down the same jaw, framing mouth, touching briefly above his eyes.

Roarke left him to it a moment longer, taking the time to fetch his own clean garments. A flick of magic surreptitiously locked the door, preventing Nick from bolting when his back was turned. But when he turned around again, Nick was where he'd left him, scowling down at his vestment, noticing the wrinkles and helpless in his fussing to make them disappear.

"'Ere." Roarke padded over, and righted the thing, smoothing it with brisk, appreciative hands that lingered at slim, knife-sharp hips only the second needed to bring another bloom of color into Nick's face. "Tha's better, eh?"

He muttered something largely unintelligible, and jittered back, out of reach. Then he took a breath, as though to brace himself, which had Roarke's eyebrow creeping up in interest, and raised his eyes. They were abruptly keen as razors.

"Wot, precisely, d'you want from me?" His chin was cocked up, daring the older man to challenge his autonomy over himself, shoulders back.

The little cat had finally bared his teeth and showed his claws, the mage mused. Good. It was about time.

"A' the moment? Ah'll content mahself wit' kisses. There's time enough fer more, later."

"An' if I say nae?" Gods, he needed to be able to say nay.

"Then ye've said nae, an' tha's tha'," replied Roarke, with great patience. "Ah'm no' interested in forcin' ye tae do anathing ye dinna want."

"I dinna want—" The mage's expression had him pausing, the words dying on his tongue, and he pulled back, a clutch in his belly.

"Once ye say nae, t'will nae be 'aye', ye understand, no' easily. Be verra sure, Nick, tha' ye know wot ye want." Black eyes had lost their warmth, and none of the constant humor lurked in them anymore.

Nick bristled at that, visibly, fury turning his face to ice, deepening and roughening his voice to a Highlander's thick growl. "Dinna 'and me ultimatums, damn you," he stepped closer belligerently, hands fisted at sides, eyes snapping with temper. "I've lived under 'em all mah life; by th' Goddess, I'll no' answer tae 'em naow, from ye."

"Alroight," Roarke surprised him by agreeing calmly, stole the wind neatly from his sails. "But 'ow's this? Wait a bit, a'fore ye say aye, or nae. Let wot comes come. Ah've nae want tae rush ye, or make ye uncomfertable, but neither do Ah want ye rushin' yerself. Di' ye ken wot Ah'm tryin' tae say?"

As capable and self-sufficient as he was, Nick was a spooky lad; fully able to over-think a relationship to death before even it truly started. It was that Roarke sought to avoid, that and placing too much pressure on the man before he could stand to bear it.

"I ken," he muttered, fighting resentment. It was  _infuriating_ , that the mage could render him angry and temperamental, then remain so calm and cool and reasonable, while Nick had reached the point that he wanted the catharsis of yelling at Roarke, and ended up only making a fool of himself. It was an itchy sensation, and one that the mage seemed to bring about merely by breathing. And it was very nearly enough to have him opening his mouth and denying them both.

But. That nasty word had him hesitating.

Roarke watched him a long moment, waiting to see if there'd be a greater reaction. When Nick did nothing more but step further back into his comfortable greater-than-arms-length distance, eyeing him with renewed wariness, and more than a hint of irritated dislike, the mage relaxed.

Then he frowned, because hunger, fierce and quite insistent, was beginning to claw mean-temperedly at his gut. His body, having restored the majority of his magic with sleep, demanded sustenance now, to replace the rest.

"Breakfast," the mage said, glancing wryly at the mid-afternoon sunlight that was creeping its golden path across his floor, and scraped an idle hand across his chin. "The firs' order o' business, Ah think."


	17. Chapter 17

The next weeks had everything returning to what appeared normal. Alasdair returned to his home with every evidence of relief, the shadows of worry disappeared from Ghada's eyes. The children settled, and relaxed, though Kenna still lurked, particularly in the mornings. Roarke spared barely a day before leaping back to his usual grueling pace, overseeing his apprentices' learning, the caretaking of his enormous home, and countless other things.

None of it kept him busy enough, in Nick's estimation, for the mage still had time to seek him out and disrupt otherwise carefully routine days.

He held, largely, to the habits he'd begun to form while Roarke lay a-bed, still rising early, and heading first thing for the barn, Kenna's hand tucked in his. There, at that time, he rarely found himself accosted, and for that he was grateful. Mornings were never his best time, and anything that made his mind spin crazily—which the mage did, always—was to be diligently avoided.

Breakfast, however, was a turning point. The moment he appeared there, it seemed he was considered fair game for the rest of his waking hours, or at least until he escaped in to his quarters for the evening. No longer the silent meal, now Roarke, Mora, and Ghada chattered, wide awake and feeling abominably social, while Kenna watched wide-eyed, and he and Allaidh, who seemed to hold similar views as to how mornings should be conducted, in silence and in calm and much later in the day, looked on, bleary-eyed, and ate what was put in front of them. All too often, it seemed, the conversation reached out and attempted to tug him forcibly in, but he resisted as politely as was possible. Allaidh was seldom so lucky.

The older children's magic lessons came next, and Roarke herded them off to one of the training halls or another. They could last anywhere from thirty minutes to half the morning, before all of the children were sent to the library for the rest of their lessons, under the eagle eyes of either Roarke or Ghada.

Nick used the time to do some studying of his own; scouring the books he selected at random for the information they could give him, be it magic, horticulture or a treatise on the workings of some far-away country's social structure. What kind of knowledge it was didn't matter, just that there was plenty, and it was forthcoming. Knowledge wasn't something that could be taken, once gathered.

He was fortunate—Roarke's library was extensive enough to keep him reading for years yet, and ranged broadly in genre.

Lunch broke the relative quiet of the morning, and released Allaidh, Kenna, and Mora from their education. He still shunned the meal, ignoring Ghada's frowns, and shrugging off the black gaze that followed him around the room.

His own lessons were much later in the afternoon, after Kenna's, and after he'd looked in a final time on Tala; who was enjoying his large new paddock (built in little more than a day with some careful consideration and a great deal of magic and wood) far too much to be returned to his stall for the increasingly warm evenings.

Nick was careful to avoid being late, as the alternative was having Roarke come, and corner him in the stable, positioning himself a shade too close, with the disturbing heat in his pitch eyes that made Nick's insides clench, that single eyebrow raised in amused inquiry. As it was, on time and safely in the training hall, the mage made no show of disguising the husky note in his voice, nor curbing the lingering glances up and down Nick's body. It was only a matter of time, Nick was positive, before he started nudging for more than heated glances and the occasional innuendo. But Roarke'd pushed him into no corners, nor overwhelmed him and kissed him brainless—a good thing, he'd tried to convince himself, for though he hadn't said 'no', he had yet to say 'yes'.

Of course, insistence of that did little to guard against the arousals that were quickly becoming nightly, and increasingly unrelenting. Ignoring the problem no longer made it go away, only intensified the grip of craving's claws. It was very quickly becoming a plague that robbed him of even the meager sleep he needed, and had him waking pale and muzzy-headed in the morning, with dark circles ringing his eyes, waking to the vaguely horrifying feel of ejaculate, cooling and sticky, drying against his skin.

It was strange, and quite embarrassing. The last time such dreams had bothered him had been at age fourteen, and they'd stopped almost completely within a year and a half, once it fully sunk in that sex was little more than a bodily function and a way to exert control over others. This reemergence of youth wasn't something that pleased him—and it certainly didn't help that, in all likelihood, Ghada washed (or at least oversaw the washing—magic couldn't do everything unsupervised) his bedclothes. That made it difficult to meet her eyes without flushing hot red.

* * *

He had let a few weeks pass, waited for everything to settle back into place. That hadn't been solely to drop Nick's guard—a week of sleep meant that there were things that needed his attention, not the least were Mora and Allaidh, both of whom, he knew well, had had their foundations of trust sorely rocked. Kenna, secure enough in her place here, since she'd come to him so young, had been frightened, and required extensive reassuring, despite her recent attachment to Nick. He resumed their lessons the moment he was able, and spent the first week pretending not to see their worried, flickering glances. Ghada, fortunately, was optimistic by nature, and inclined to believe him when he said all was well.

Nick, naturally, passed the time eyeing him nervously and flushing, having received quite a convincing demonstration of his returned vitality. So Roarke let him twitch and jolt as he would for a while, without too much interference; he'd wear himself down eventually and settle, or find himself needy enough that he'd welcome the mage's advances. Besides, it gave him the time he thought he wanted—Nick would never be able to say the mage had rushed him.

By the end of the second week, however, he was concerned. The build-up of energy was subtle: a brightening of Nick's aura, his restlessness failing to settle. A stiffness to his gait, decreased appetite. And a frowning sexual awareness in his eyes that wasn't entirely heat, and which clearly discomfited him.

"Today, Ah'm teachin' ye 'ow tae disperse yer magic," Roarke announced, when his newest student padded into the training hall, punctual to the minute. He could see, just looking, how tightly he was wound, all that energy kept tight under lock and key, and wondered how he managed to function.

"…disperse it?" They'd been working on controlling it for days now, locking it down without inciting rebellion, and directing it to his will. This sudden reversal was unexpected, when they had discussed at the end of the last lesson a continuation of manipulation practice.

"Aye, lad," the mage flicked a glance up and down his body, a speculative gleam in black eyes that had Nick frowning, and pushing down the urge to cover himself, or worse, glance tellingly down to assure himself his cock hadn't decided to swell of its own volition again.

"Walk aroound like tha' fer much longer, we'll have tae pry ye from the ceiling next time a door slams. Naow, sit daown." He gestured vaguely to the floor of the training hall, where a pile of cushions was heaped.

"Ye want tae be comfortable, but nae sleepy. Try tae relax, Nick," Roarke shifted some of the pillows aside, and sank to the floor in front of Nick with far more grace than someone with such long limbs should be able to manage, folding them neatly.

Nick followed, cautiously, his wariness more a habit than any real suspicion that the mage intended something outside his best interests.

"Most magic user's learn tae do this b'fore they e'en realize wot 't is they're doin'—yer body pulls energy from th' earth, sae, ye've tae use it, else 't'll overwhelm ye. There are several different ways tae do this. Meditation, expenditure, energy transfer, visualization. Each mage 'as tae find his or her own preferred method. Ah generally prefer a mix 'o expenditure an' visualization. Tha's wot Ah'll teach ye today. I's nae the easiest, but Ah think ye'll be most comfertable wit' tha', a' least a' first."

The younger man frowned with curiosity, but Roarke was already moving on, explaining how to manipulate his magic into floating balls of glowing energy, how to direct them, and then demonstrating, filling the hall with tiny firefly pinpricks of purple light that fluttered and swayed.

He relaxed into the task without noticing, attention narrowing to nothing but creating and controlling the pale balls of heatless flame. There was something awe-inspiring, being able to will the orbs to float where and how he liked. Especially after he managed to figure out the trick of holding more than one or two, and could direct them in groups, swirling and swooping around one another like flocks of minute glowing birds.

Roarke sat quietly, letting Nick play, watching him do it. Wasn't aware, that his shoulders had loosened, or that he'd a flush of pleasure tinting his cheeks, the mage noted, with the beginnings of a smile playing around his lips. He was caught now, was Nick; he'd not so easily be turning away from his magic now that he'd seen the beauty of it, tasted and felt the power singing through his bloodstream.

The mage let nearly an hour pass before he intruded, instructing the younger man to pull his magic back in, and suggesting cagily that he examine himself. And he smiled at the musing wonderment in Nick's voice when he found how at ease he was, calm and loose-limbed, and without any of the twitching restlessness knotting him up.

"T'was a gud lesson, Ah thought. Ye seemed tae enjoy yerself." Roarke climbed to his feet, feeling the quiet complaints of his joints, twinging from the hard chill of the ground, the unmoving position, held so long, without even the analgesic release of energy.

"I did, aye. Tha' was…verra interestin'. I hadna realized tha' magic could be…enjoyed. I thought 'twas a tool, only, but versatile."

Nick, gaining his feet and contemplating magic, had yet to realize their proximity—so close, their sleeves brushed, and touching needed only a hand to reach.

"Mm, it can be. If ye want 't enough, an' 'r' willin' tae pay the price, odds are gud 't kin be done."

 _For example_ , the mage thought, and reached. Fingertips brushed cloth, then smoothed over the soft skin of Nick's nape, feeling the dichotomy of silky skin and satiny hair. Nick jolted, but too late; Roarke had shifted, cut off immediate escape, slid his free arm around a trim, streamlined waist and tugged him closer.

And paused. Nick, who'd been wary of advance and sought to avoid being caught, now had no real idea of what to do. Fighting didn't seem a particularly attractive concept, since the catching had occurred, but his sense of awkwardness was growing by the moment as the mage did nothing. His hands, clutching at the dark fabric of Roarke's outer robe in a tangled mixture of rejection and desire, tugged, almost petulantly, in wordless question.

"T'will be a hug, if ye step closer, or a kiss, if ye'll tip yer 'ead back. Or we can stay 'ere, as we are, fer another moment or tae. T'is all pleasant enough."

The fingers at his nape stroked, feather-light, and had a shiver stuttering its way down his spine. Cautiously, his head tilted back a quarter of an inch, so he could meet hot dark eyes without peering through his eyelashes. He was close, close enough to scent the spicy medley of old books, strong magic, and various herbs that clung to Roarke. Just close enough to feel the slight press of the mage's maleness against his hip. Not a threat, he noted, blinking, but a questionn.

"Was tha' an answer, lad?"

His voice hesitated, but he managed to nod, just once, and lift his chin another tiny notch.

Roarke didn't waste time in rewarding the bravery, but took his mouth strongly, without the coaxing of previous encounters. It wasn't unlike breathing in liquid fire, Nick rediscovered, with the heat and the movement of the kiss. He squirmed, wanting the heights that fire could take him to, and seeking deeper depths while he drowned quickly and without struggle. He ripped away when his head started to spin and darken, gasped in breath, and pressed closer, head ducking now under Roarke's chin to rest against his collarbone, as he noted they were as wrapped close together as two pages in a closed book. His mind was awhirl, and showed no signs of settling anytime soon.

Something that sounded like a breathless chuckled stirred his hair. "Naow we'll try the hug, Ah take 't." Long arms roped around him, settling in two solid bands across his body, gripping without squeezing. They were lined up, chest to chest, hips bracketing hips, thigh pressed to thigh, until their knees. Nick could feel, fully, Roarke's hardness, just as well as the mage could feel his own, stirring and intrigued. But more than that, he could feel warmth, seeping into him, the strength in those arms, that chest; supporting. Not restraining.

When finally he stepped away, it was with a sigh.

He was aroused, with want flowing through his veins side-by-side with blood, so that it was all he could do not to wave discretion away to the winds, lean back in, and mutter a heartfelt 'aye'.

But he wouldn't, he knew, for there was still something in him that resisted, violently, the notion of getting any closer to the mage, to anyone. Sex wouldn't be impersonal and emotionless with Roarke; the bloody mage would find a way to drag him out of his comfortable, self-contained bubble and he'd find himself doing something in the heat of the moment he would regret bitterly once the sensual haze cleared—he was sure of this.

"Wot're ye thinkin', lad, wit' yer eyes sae serious?" Roarke brushed a fingertip down along the line of his cheek, then tucked an errant lock of unruly dark hair back, away from his face. The intimacy of the gesture had desire curling loosely through him, while another part froze, then urged him to move away from it, to disallow the contact.

"I wish things were diff'rent." It was out before he could bite it back, that strange, irresolvable wish that simultaneously embarrassed and irritated him.

"'ow sae?" Roarke wasn't frowning, or at least his mouth wasn't, but Nick could see concern begin to surface in dark eyes.

"It doesna matter," Nick replied, and turned away. What a stupid thing to say, he thought, and tried to shrug off discomfort. Instead, he felt a hand lay lightly on his shoulder, glanced back at the mage.

"Ah'd say 't matters, or ye'd nae 'ave said 't. Wot's the matter?"

"'s nae important," silver eyes flickered away from black again. "Leave it go." He tugged, with the beginnings of insistence, against Roarke's grip.

"If ye'll tell me truthfully tha' 's nae somethin' here tha's botherin' ye. Ah'll do wot Ah can tae make ye comfortable, but ye've tae tell me."

He blinked, and flushed with mortification. "It's not. Nay, it's nothin'—I'm fine. I'm comfortable. Really."

 _Oh, gods, Nicodemus, you_  idiot _._

Roarke studied him intently, black eyes roving his face. "One day, Nick, ye'll 'ave tae tell me wot 't is that put's sich a wariness in yer eyes." It was a promise, with all the weight of such, and had Nick's stomach jumping with nerves rather than pleasant heat.

"Bu' nae tonight," the mage decided aloud, and let him retreat.


	18. Chapter 18

Sleep wasn’t a commodity a full-grown, fully-trained master mage needed much of, under normal circumstances. Magical energy had a strange bolstering effect on the metabolism, and what others would term ‘insomnia’ was par-to-the-course.

Still, Roarke had to think, it couldn’t be particularly indicative of good health to want answers far more than a few well-deserved hours of rest. But it wasn’t like his current level of sexual frustration would allow it, in any case—his dreams of late had been of a steamy, graphic nature; ones that would make Nick, who featured heavily in them, faint dead away, in shock. So, answers it would be.

Eventually, anyway. The signature he’d pulled from the bind was still eluding his efforts to match it to a demon, or any other Being of Power.

He sat back in his chair, lifting a hand to rub at the ache centered above his eyes, brought on by scanning too many pages of the closely-lettered demon language, with their clever charms woven into the shapes themselves, to promote additional confusion and frustration. Goddess, he didn’t know how it was Dór dealt with the bloody-minded creatures as often as he did.

“Whell, boy-o, yer a dolt, aren’t ye?” he inquired of himself, pushing away from the chair and stretching out the kinks in his back, before strolling to the hearth, where the fire had burned low to embers. Another couple of logs, and a flick of power had it igniting again, and the mage knelt before it, building a room he knew well in his mind.

A large hearth, suited to fire-calling, pale, light-catching walls layered over with art and shelves of books. The table was long and sturdy, and children’s toys were scattered haphazardly on the floor.

Now came the magic, flooding eagerly into the flame, connecting it with another fire flickering lowly many miles away.

“A moment, Roarke,” Rapunzel asked, before his eyes had adjusted to seeing through fire, settling young Diar on a hip. “Let me put the baby down, and get him.” 

“Thank ye,” he called after her, and waited patiently. Dórainn emerged a moment later from the twin’s bedroom, looking tired-eyed and stern.

“The twins are ill. Not seriously,” he promised, holding up a hand to forestall Roarke’s questions, “Just a chill. But they’re miserable.” And their misery was yanking at his heartstrings, side-by-side with worry and devotion unlike any he’d felt before having children.

“Ah’ll nae keep ye long then. Ah was wondering if ye’d ever seen anathing loike this before?” he sketched the symbols in the flame before him, making them glow dark, that his former ward could see them.

“A Greater Demon’s signature, it looks like,” Dórainn replied, frowning thoughtfully at it, pulling the magic out, and laying it carefully on the table, on a handy sheet of paper. “Where did you find that?”

“Woven intae the structure o’ Nick’s bind. ‘ave ye seen ‘t, then?”

“Interesting. It’s familiar, vaguely, or something similar is. I’ll look around, ask some questions.”

“Mah thanks, lad. Ah’m in nae in a big ‘urry.”

“It’s little enough, but—” he turned at a noise behind him, saw his son wobble in the doorway, face pale and clammy where fever-flush hadn’t touched.

“Da?” The child’s voice was tremulous with weary discomfort, and he swayed dizzily before seeing his godfather’s image in the fire. “Granda.”

“Roarke, I’ll look into it—” the younger mage was already crossing to the lad, kneeling beside him.

“Later. Aye. Feel better soon, Seòsaidh.” He heard, an instant before he let the magic flow away, the little boy’s whimpery goodbye, and had his own heartstrings tugged, a sweet ache that lingered gently.

“Ah’ve seen this b’fore, Ah ken tha’ Ah ‘ave,” he muttered, standing and brushing soot from his hands.

The record of a possession, maybe, or a deed. Demons, Greater or lesser, liked to mark their things and accomplishments, claim them, despite their penchant for playful secrecy. He moved back to his desk, stood over the books rather than sit.

“Nae lore,” the mage continued to mutter, trying to jog his memory. “Nae ‘istory...”

“Roarke?”

He turned, saw Allaidh lurking hesitantly near the boundary of his work area, suggested by the bookshelves. The mage bit back a frown.

“Wot’s the matter, Allaidh?” the normally unflappable lad had turned back to the wary young wolf of his younger childhood, nervous and pale in the dim light, as liable to snap at him as run from him.

“I-I saw. Men, on horseback. They’re looking for…something.” His dark hair was rumpled, the shirt he slept in shoved hastily into pants in odd tucks and bumps. The feet were bare, and likely frozen on the stone, but there wasn’t much Roarke could do about that. “I saw it, like fire-calling, but in my head.”

“A dream, lad, or a vision? Ye’d ken the difference if’t were the second.” Though there was little doubt in his mind that whatever Allaidh had seen was or had happened, or would still. Dreams, even vicious ones, didn’t put quite that look in the eyes, not like a bout of the Sight.

“It was real. They’re searching. I’m not lying.” He shifted slightly, a loosening that would make any blows less, make rabbiting out of reach easier. Roarke hated it when they did that, the battered children he gave home to, when they felt so unsafe as to think it were necessary.

“Ah believe ye, Allaidh.” And because the lad heard truth in his tone, and saw not a hint of irritation or displeasure in his visage, he relaxed a bit, his face going a bit less drawn.

“Come’n sit, boy-o, tell me wot t’was ye saw.” He didn’t touch Allaidh when the lad shuffled nearer—the past, and the thinly buried half-feral street thief that Allaidh had once been lurked too close to the surface to allow casual contact, even a light hand to the shoulder in comfort.

“The men are in armor. I didn’t see an insignia, an’ I couldn’t see the flags. Um, the one at the front, I guess he was in charge. He was reading a map, ticking off things on it. I—I don’t know. They were looking for something, I don’t know what. I don’t know how. Someone, maybe. He kept mumbling about ‘getting the bastard’.”

He took a breath, and sat back, strange eyes simultaneously fierce and worried. “Was that right?”

“Ye did verra whell, lad. Ah’ll ask ye some questions, see if we cannae make’t clearer.”

Allaidh nodded.

“Di’ ye see where they were? Was there snow, fer instance, or mud?”

“Snow, I think. At least in some parts—the shade. Mud, and grass, where the sun was. It was day, so I could see it. The grass was purple-ish, I think, like it gets higher in the mountains.”

 _Ah-ha_. Yes, Roarke had wondered when the Empress’s men would come.

 

He asked a few more questions, and coaxed warmed milk into Allaidh, before he sent the boy back to bed. And resigned himself, glancing at the darkening of the predawn sky, to getting neither work done or even the semblance of sleep. Instead, he wandered his home, making sure all was as it should be, testing the wards, checking in on the children and Ghada as he passed their rooms. All, finally, sleeping quietly with blankets tucked up to chins.

It was time, he thought, walking through the jolt of the anti-magic wards, to shift Nick to one of the rooms in another wing. The wards—he could feel them—were straining mightily to do their job, now that Nick’s magic was unbound. They groaned and stretched as he passed through, trying to accommodate. That aside, however, everything seemed in order, as he eased the door gently open, intending only to glance inside. That notion was abandoned when the sound of struggling against confining bedclothes and abortive little noises of distress reached his ears.

“Ah, Nick,” Roarke murmured it, crossing the room with silent tread to him. The man was trembling, chilly sweat gleaming dully on his shoulders, bared by his tossing. It was cool in the room, as the fire had burnt down to ashes, but not cold, even with the silvery light of the moon slipping through a crack in the drawn drapes. He jerked, convulsively, when the mage sat beside him on the bed, still struggling with the sheets that tangled him. A sound, hardly more than audible and caught between whimper and moan and breathless growl, eked from his throat.

“Gently naow, lad.” He reached out, physically and magically; soothed the fear, and disentangled him as far as he could without waking Nick, crooning all the while. And had to smile, when, without prompting, the younger man turned to him and burrowed against the warmth of his side.

An hour passed between them, Nick sleeping calm and still, Roarke stroking a hand over his tangled, soft hair, thinking his thoughts in the hush of the castle.

 

He woke once that night, partially. Chased by dreams where old menaces and degradations somehow managed to mix with new pleasure, hope, and budding acceptance to form a nighttime travesty, his eyes, still glazed, fluttered open, saw hands. He jerked back, _escape!_ a scream in his mind, an instinct hindered by whatever bound him in place, and would have snarled words to the effect of ‘get away from me’, if some bastard hybrid of a noise hadn’t replaced the words with a trembly little squeak. Cold, enough that he felt stiff and slow with it, nagged at him.

And then there heat, to soothe the trembling, washing through him, and freedom, all of it whispering of safety and comfort. A hand, big and lean and strong, threaded gently through his hair, massaging along his scalp, slicking the tickly strands away from his face. The lilting harshness of a Highlands accent, thick with Gàidhlig, murmured, the words indistinct and peaceful. He yearned to be nearer to the warmth of it, and without being aware of it; Nick edged his way closer, then slipped deeper into sleep for the darkest hours of the night, an elegant hand still carding his hair. 

 

             

“I found it etched on my mother’s pendant.”

Roarke blinked out of a hazy doze, then frowned at his fireplace, with the image of Dórainn in it; puzzled and irritated at the puzzlement. “Ye found wot etched on yer mum’s pendant? Wot pendant?” He’d have readily and cheerfully murdered for tea, or the bitter-tasting brew Ghada made from running hot water through crushed, roasted beans. Anything, really, with a kick of caffeine.           

Dórainn raised an eyebrow, but wisely said nothing about his mage-guide’s disorientation. “The necklace that was my mother’s; which I found in my parent’s house in excess of thirty years ago, before we razed the thing to the ground. Yes, I see it’s coming back to you. In any case, the Greater Demon signature you asked me to look into; I found that etched into the back of it, small and quite neatly. As to what it’s doing there, I couldn’t tell you. I wouldn’t mind learning exactly what a Being of that level had to do with her, though.”

“Ana idea which Demon?”

“A hint, I think. I’ve a few contacts to tap yet, but if they pan out, I should know within a few days. Meanwhile, you might ask him if he recognizes it. Demons generally like their victims to know whom to curse while they suffer, and leave their marks around in little ways.”

Roarke nodded, contemplation winning over the caffeine craving, and rubbed at his chin. “Tha’s a thought. ‘ow’re the twins?”

“Better, finally. They slept like the dead, once we got them to bed, and woke feeling better, if still a bit warm. Rapunzel has an eye on them for the moment. Iona’s chaffing to be back to her lessons and Seòsaidh’s not far behind her. I think we’ll hold off another day or two, though, at least with training. Let their energy levels settle.”

Recalling the mayhem a magic-filled child could wreak when ill with little fondness and a wince of sympathy, because his student had three, all of whom had demonstrated high levels of wild magic, Roarke nodded sagely. “A gud move, boy-o.”

“I relish having a roof, and walls. I’d like them to remain the same shape, density, color, and consistency as they are now. That said,” he concluded, turning to peer at something beyond Roarke’s limited view, “I should now go and insure that they remain unmolested. Rapunzel’s paints have been known to find their way to any available surface when this quality of silence is prevalent.”

“Hmm. Off ye go, then.” Roarke watched as the fire flickered, and Dórainn’s image disappeared, rubbing the heel of a hand to the spot where his heart ached in the way his foster-students made it do. Then stood, and stretched, and went to hunt up a mug and some hot water.

Not long after, Nick was studying the sheet, staring at it for a long, quiet moment, before turning his gaze blankly to a whitewashed stone wall. Kenna watched him like a hawk, a hog-bristle brush clutched in her hands—Roarke had interrupted a joint grooming session when he had tracked Nick down in the barn. He now waited patiently, enjoying the tiny flickers Nick’s thoughts had passing over his face, through his eyes, until he frowned and looked up. “I don’t remember anathing like tha’, no. Why?”

Roarke explained, briefly, absently ruffling Kenna’s hair, and offering a hand to Tala when the horse cautiously sniffed at his shoulder, and then producing a carrot from one of the pockets in his black over-robe, flattening his hand before the gelding’s teeth took his fingers as well as the proffered bribe for good behavior. He smiled at the little girl’s giggle.

“But why’s the same mark on Alasdair’s pendant?” Nick inquired, and he thought again on the possibility of having met the man who’d fathered him. What were the odds, after all, of having met someone who had a close a match to his face as the mage had, down to the eyes and bone structure?

“Tha’ we dinna know, lad, tho’ he’s lookin’ intae it.”

 

The day passed quickly—Mora and Allaidh took to their lesson like ducks to water, soaking up the intricacies of transfiguration as applied to the element, Kenna happily teasing out the tendrils of a Northern water lily. Dórainn had come back with a near match to the name, and a shrug for the fact that he could find nothing exact. It didn’t disguise the irritation in his grey eyes, though, or the determination to get to the bottom of the mystery that faced them.

But by evening, after an afternoon of fooling with the puzzle of it, shifting the information around, considering it from every angle he could, Roarke was quite afraid he saw the larger picture. Cursing under his breath, he sat back, and considered his options, raking long fingers through his hair.

Damn it, it didn’t even make sense, not really. There were so many variables, and so little information to offset them.

Regardless, something in him insisted this was the answer he sought.

This was not something he’d relish telling Nick or Dórainn, not a bit. He would, though—playing around with Demon magic, particularly hereditary, was a phenomenally stupid thing to do. Demons responded to different catalysts, magically, and would dilute far more slowly through the generations than a typical mage’s descendants. And if his theory proved right, there were others he’d have to track down and inform—a feat of no easy means, as not a single one of those he could think of wasn’t a mage, currently traveling or settled at great distance away.

As the sun began to sink below the line of the earth, as it drew nearer the time to face Nick, his mind turned instead to the problem of revealing his suspicions.


	19. Chapter 19

He was late to arrive in the library after dinner, but that was Roarke’s fault. If the mage had _mentioned_ that he wanted Nick to come to the library in the first place, as opposed to leaving a note carelessly scrawled and propped against the training hall’s door, Nick would have been on time.

So, irritable and distracted, he swept into Roarke’s sanctum scowling. The scowl fell away at the scene before him, a step and a half into the half-circle made by book cases around the desk. There was Roarke, building the fire high while Alasdair’s image wavered, a dark shadow among the flames, his fair wife standing in the safety of his looped arms, no doubt guarded by his magic.

“Wot’s this about, Roarke?” the fine hairs at his nape prickled as they rose, tipped off by the dark concern lining the mage’s face, the hardness of Alasdair’s, the puzzlement on Rapunzel’s. The sensation only intensified when Roarke, instead of answering, tipped his head at a nearby chair, indicating Nick should sit. True nerves, ones that hadn’t made much of an appearance since the night his magic had been released and Roarke gone comatose, had his stomach knotting unpleasantly, as he crossed to the chair and perched on its arm, giving the mage an expectant stare to match Alasdair’s.

“Keep in yer minds tha’ ‘tis a _theory_ , an’ one Ah’ve nae been able tae substantiate properly.” And on a deep breath, he began to present the facts he did have, weaving them into a thorny story of a Greater or partial Demon—an individual of both Demon and human birth—which had retained some of the powers and the hermaphroditic qualities characteristic of demons; an incubus, in effect, who had proceeded to produce at least two sons with human parents. And, as indicated by the characteristics common to the magic of the bind and of both Alasdair and Nick, had bound the younger at birth, for protection, perhaps, or out of maliciousness.

“’Twould explain yer colorin’, the similarities in yer magic, the nearness o’ yer ages, an’ the fact tha’ yer parents, tae yer knowledge, ‘ave nae met. T’would explain the coincidence of the bind and the necklace bearin’ the same mark.” Roarke shrugged, eyes tracking between the two men with worry. Rapunzel’s hand was caged tight in Dórainn’s, his face tight. Nick’s expression had closed down as well, blank and smooth as a mask of ice. “But there’re things ‘t doesna explain, tae. Ah could be wrong,” he reminded, “Ah’ve little enough proof.”

He hoped he was. He wished that he didn’t believe in his gut that this was the answer, convoluted and odd as it was; longed to gather them all away from the unpleasantness he’d just distributed.

“Is tha’ even possible?” Nick inquired, voice dead of emotion, mind reeling. _Not father then. Half-brother. Maybe._

“Ah’ve ‘eard rumors, an’ tracked daown a few stories o’ such a thing ‘appenin’. There’s no’ much tha’s documented, an’ most of it’s from early on. But their magic an’ ours isna sae verra different, an’ they kin take on ana form they loike. Ah cannae see a reason why a Demon an’ a human cannae produce viable children.”

“Is it likely to affect the children?” Rapunzel’s voice managed to be strong, but there was fear in her eyes. “Iona, Seòsaidh, and Diar?”

“Ah believe tha’ the connection’s diluted, a’ least once, before it reached Nick an’ Dór. It’s more loikely t’was a halfling, no’ a full Greater Demon.” He raked a restless hand through his hair, rumpling the red strands and inciting them to fall unnoted around his face. “‘aving raised Alasdair, lived wit’ Nick, Ah dinna think ye’ve anathing tae fear, lass. If’n anathing were goin’ tae ‘appen, ‘t would’ve ‘appened first in ‘im, or when Nick’s magic came. Ah’d ‘ave noticed.” He shifted his weight, an uncomfortable move of a man generally at ease in his own skin. “Ah ‘ope tha’ helps.”

Rapunzel’s long breath was just audible over the crackle-hiss of the fire. “A bit, yes.”

“Cinaed may be able tae tell ye more about ana Demon activities; he’d remember better. Ah’m sorry, Rapunzel, A—Dór.”

“It’s better to know, I suppose,” Alasdair said at last. “We’ll…be in touch, Roarke, once we’ve digested this. There is some good that comes of this—childbirth alone couldn’t kill a Demon.”

Roarke managed a weak smile for him, and silently cursed himself as his former ward and his wife stepped away from the fire.

Movement drew his eye; Nick had risen and moved away, expression as blank as his eyes.

“Lad—Nick!” the mage’s voice sharpened when Nick seemed intent on ignoring him. Instead, the younger man paused at the sound, just long enough for three long strides to take him beside Nick, catching his shoulder with a light but unmistakably restraining hand.

He blinked when Nick turned, and simply stood, head ducked and resting lightly on his collarbone. He’d expected the man to struggle, to try and shrug him off, at least. “Are ye—nay, ‘course yer no’ alroight.” And wrapped him close.

Nick managed a thin chuckle, closing his eyes against the linen Roarke wore. _’M losin’ my touch_ , he thought, and let himself be held, not realizing he’d spoken aloud ‘til the mage replied.

“’ow’s tha’?”

“Not sae long ago,” he muttered, “I’d’ve taken anathing y’like, and walked out of here without a blink.” Now, he couldn’t manage more than a few feet without a nosy, insistent mage seeing through the mask. And his gut churned at the leaning, only the knowledge that fighting the mage would be fruitless kept him there, in Roarke’s arms.

“Ah’m sorry. Ah didnae do this tae upset ye, ana of ye,” his hands slid up and down Nick’s spine, seeking the tension he knew lay in the muscles there and chasing it was away with soothing circles of his fingertips.

“I know,” the younger man replied without moving or looking up. “I’d imagine ‘e does too. It’s…what he said. I’s better to know. And yer theory makes sense. But it is…unsettling.”

“Ah’m sorry,” the mage repeated, unable to find words to make it better, or think of actions to fix wrongs done. Couldn’t even be pleased that some of the walls Nick had built around himself had begun to ease open for him.

“Dinna be sorry. It’s not of yer makin’. I don’t blame the messenger for the news.” But his head ached, and his chest, while his stomach roiled. _Changeling, indeed_.

As though he felt it too, or sensed it, Roarke held him closer still, the flat of his cheek coming down against disorderly black hair. He was grateful for the closeness—Nick was sure he couldn’t have asked for it, wasn’t sure if he could stand having it now. But it chased the chill from his bones. Unable to prevent himself, he leaned into the mage, pressing them together from shoulders to knees, playing the vine with his arms wrapping about to cling. Gods help him if Roarke pushed him away, he thought, and couldn’t help the tremble that shivered through him. Gods help him if he ddin’t.

The mage didn’t, but slid his hands up, ‘til one arm could curl across his back from ribs to hip, while the other crept higher, threading his fingers through Nick’s hair. He rocked them both gently, back and forth on the balls of his feet.

He didn’t know why, but the tenderness of the gesture had emotion—which, precisely, he wasn’t sure—clogging his throat, halting any attempt he might have made at speech. It seemed the only thing for it was to tilt back his head, offer his mouth. And when Roarke’s expression twitched towards confusion, rather than into the wicked smile that usually accompanied such things, he swallowed cowardice and pushed up enough to press lips to lips.

Immediately, Roarke’s hands tightened on him, fisting in his shirt and tangling in his hair. But the kiss didn’t become voracious, and the heat it generated didn’t scald. Instead, it blunted the edges; smoothed over and silenced the lingering discomfort of touching and being touched that choked out helpless warnings, lasting so long he thought he might faint from it. Desire and something else, something more, that he couldn’t name and refused to examine, curled through his blood, chasing away the shock and nausea of earlier. And demanded more of him.

He tugged back an inch, no more. “Roarke—aye. I’m sayin’ aye.” And crushed his mouth back to the mage’s, feeling the jump of interest as blood pooled in Roarke’s loins, the reply of his own body as they pressed together.

“Gods,” Roarke managed, and eased back to rest his forehead against Nick’s. His heart was throbbing fit to burst through his rib cage, breath knocked clear away, eyes blurred and heavy. “Ye pick the damndest times, d’ye nae?”

“What?” the younger man sounded just as breathless, and blinked like an owl at him, trying to discern the reason he’d so suddenly withdrawn.

“How the ‘ell am Ah tae do this, lad?”

There was a long moment of shocked silence. “I—I had assumed you were the more knowledgeable of the two of us, actually.”

He closed his eyes at the tone, abruptly so very stiff and proper he could have sliced tea cakes with the blade of it, and fought back a chuckle for the first time in two days. “Nay, lad, no’ tha’. Ah’ve plans fer us, boy-o; Ah’m less than willin’ tae bugger ‘em by buggerin’ ye. Especially after Ah dropped this in yer lap.”

“Wh—” Nick blinked, assimilated, and was shocked as much by the vicious claws of hurt that ripped in his belly as by the rejection itself.

Oh. Well. Involuntarily his shoulders and back stiffened, and he shifted away, face closing down as the flush of pleasure drained into pale shame. “I see.”

“Ye dinna, or ye’d nae ‘ave tha’ look on yer face,” Roarke let him retreat, to a point, and then stopped him by lifting a hand to his chin, capturing it, and bringing them close again to brush a kiss over Nick’s mouth, short and sweet. “’s no’ aboout nae wantin’ ye.” The hand that had captured his face released, and slid down to take his hand instead, limp and unresisting—until he pressed it to the heat and hardness that hid behind dark, fine cloth. Then Nick twitched, tried instinctively to tug away. Just as quickly, fascination set in.

“Easy there, lad,” Roarke muttered, pulling his hand away again, a sardonic eyebrow cocked and a hint of color at his cheekbones. “But ye can see tha’ ‘s naught tae do wit’ nae wantin’ ye. It‘s aboout no’ rushin’ ye, especially af’er what ye learned earlier.”

Nick frowned, no longer angry, and with embarrassment muted by the pleasant rush of knowledge that he held the power to arouse the mage, but puzzled. “Tae be clear,” he said, slowly. “You want to go tae bed with me—but you dinna want tae rush me. Because ye feel…wot, guilty? About what you told us?”

“’t sounds better in mah ‘ead,” the mage admitted, a wry, lopsided curl to his lips. “Ah want ye tae be comfortable wit’ ‘t, tha’s all, an’ Ah’d druther ‘t didna occur tae ye tae wonder if Ah used somethin’ tha’ ‘urts ye tae get ye in mah bed. Druther not be used, either, as a crutch tae get past ‘t. No’ this way.”

For a baffled moment, Nick could only stare at the man, stunned beyond words, confused and warmed, and worried. Using…no, that hadn’t been what he’d meant; or perhaps it was, but that wasn’t _all_ it was he wanted. Not in the sense that Roarke seemed to mean it.

Where did one get this kind of consideration from? He wondered bemusedly, absurdly charmed by it. And how did a man so clever find his thinking so tangled?

“You over thought’t. My answer’s still aye. An’ you’ve not hurt me. I…I dinna think I’m tryin’ to use you.” His blood was starting the slow, viscous pounding of desire again, made so much sweeter and more urgent by genuine affection. He didn’t like at all the smudge of doubt. “Dinna want to be tryin’ to.”  

“Ah believe ye,” Roarke chuckled, a single breath of laughter, and shook his head, lacing his fingers with Nick’s and lifting them to his lips. “Alroight. Then we’ll take’t tae mah room.”

 

The walk wasn’t long, but it seemed hours before they were ensconced in the mage’s starkly dressed room, the door safely locked and warded. The sun had set nearly two hours ago, leaving the world outside the windows of glass dark and separate. The pale glass domes that usually lit the room were left dim. Candles flickered to life instead, a great number of them scattered around the room, lit by a flick of purple energy.

“There can be romance, lad,” Roarke pointed out when he caught sight of the confused expression in his eyes, and smiled, that faintly wicked grin that made Nick’s heart speed. “Jus’ a bit, sae Ah can see ye. Let’s take’t…slow.”

Black eyes sparked, and burned, holding him still, a receptive captive. Callused hands lit at his hips, slid up, under his simple, soft-fibered shirt, light as the wind. Thumbs brushed over the ridges of his pelvic bones, testing their edge before skimming along the soft skin that stretched taut between them.

“A kiss, lad. Lets ‘ave one, hmm?” And before he quite comprehended, he was lifting his face for it, having his breath stolen from his lungs, was opening his mouth at the mage’s insistent probing. Odd, he decided hazily, not for the first time since meeting the mage, the pleasure it could be to feel the slip-and-slide of someone else’s tongue inside one’s mouth. He hadn’t realized he liked the gesture of it until he’d met Roarke. This one was dizzying, glorious; he found and gripped the dark cloth of Roarke’s robes, to pull him closer and to keep from falling flat on his ass.

He wasn’t quite sure how they’d manage to cross the room—he vaguely remembered stepping back, one, two, three times, each step punctuated with the tightening of Roarke’s grip, sliding higher along his torso—when the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. He forgot to wonder after they collapsed onto it, Roarke’s mouth at his neck, examining the muscles and tendons there with concentration enough to daze, his lean body propped on elbows to keep from smothering Nick.

Another shift brought the mage’s leg up from where it had landed between his, pressing just hard enough to promise friction, and pinning him simultaneously, leaving him unable to do more than rock his hips abortively.

“Slow,” Roarke reminded, and made himself a liar by pushing Nick’s shirt impatiently higher, revealing soft, pale skin, stretched over the slenderness of muscle and bone.

Tangled in it, Nick struggled out of the cloth, leaving it to be crushed beneath them, and reached to tug at the other man’s robes. The top layer of the cloth was open and loose; he ignored it, interested instead in the closer tunic that lay beneath, with tiny lacing up the middle. Then he noticed shaking fingers, which trembled and lost the cord every time Roarke touched him, and nearly growled in frustration, the third time the thin, flexible leather fell away from his fingers.

“Sae impatient,” the mage commented, ducking his head to brush his lips over Nick’s in a teasing little caress, drawing a tiny sound of irritation from his lover, and used his free hand to trace the contours of one of the small, flat little nipples that rode a narrow breastbone.

When first he’d lowered his mouth to the silver-pink scars that tore palely across Nick’s chest, longer twins to those on his face, he thought a moment later, drawing back and blinking at unexpected pain where Nick’s collarbone and his forehead had collided, he hadn’t anticipated Nick’s twitch of shock being quite so violent.

“I—I’m sorry.” Nick’s eyes had gone from wide with heat and surprise to startled, then what would have been almost fearful in another person; his hand still at the point of contact, pressed to the reddish mark where bone had met bone.

This, Nick knew, dropping hand and eyes, was the part where he left. The moment had been lost, and both had come rather abruptly back to their senses. Affairs, he’d observed, particularly with men filling both positions, were best done in the shadows, when one or both were well drunk, or too excited to care. Pain, even a little one like a bumped head, and awkwardness were great bringers of sobriety, and could be dragged out to fuel petty viciousness.

He repeated himself, the useless apology that wouldn’t fix what clumsiness had broken, and shuffled back, trying to untangle them without causing more damage. Always something, he thought, always something that happened, cutting off any attempt he made to satisfy this particular curiosity. _Stick with women, Nicodemus, you great fool._ He didn’t make these mistakes with women.

“Where’re ye goin’, lad?” Roarke watched Nick fumble from where the mage knelt, straight-backed and disheveled, with knees sinking into the mattress, black eyes warm and considering.

Nick blinked, and frowned. This…wasn’t what was expected. However very different the mage was from other men—and Roarke was considerably different—he couldn’t imagine Roarke wanted anything to do with him right this moment, particularly if his head and pride throbbed as Nick’s collarbone did. “Uhm. I thought I’d just—go.” His fingers found, at last, the fabric of his shirt, closed on it, pulled it in front of him to hide some of the vulnerability.

“Why?” Roarke didn’t need the answer; plain on Nick’s face, wasn’t it? The self-recrimination and consternation that were making grey eyes—which had been so dark and hot and needful—pale and vaguely hollow. But Nick needed to have this challenged, that he was sure of, attempt and find himself failing to adequately explain away his sudden shyness, or better still, share the fears he had in regards to intimacy. He wanted Nick to know himself enough to identify the causes for his fears, to be able to combat them.

Expressions flickered over his face; confusion, bafflement, dismay.

“I—” _Have nothing that won’t sound completely, cowardly asinine…_

A jerk of a fire-crowned head, a silent ‘come here’ gesture, had everything Nick couldn’t say dying down again, and after a moment of hesitation long as an eternity, he shuffled closer again. Long fingers plucked away the shirt, tossed it heedlessly to the ground, a hard mouth and black-as-pitch eyes smiled.

“Want tae try again?”           

Throat tight with emotion—he’d not name it, he would not name it, whatever it was—that refused to be pushed down, Nick nodded, and tilted his head back, laying himself as bare as he could stand to. He didn’t quite know what to do, now, how to recover from the blunder.

_Gods, he’s sweet_ , the mage thought, carefully wrapping his arms around the man and then drawing him up, quicksilver, onto his knees, flush against his body. Nick would be a participant in it, he was determined, not some sacrificial virgin.

Nick’s gasp was just audible, arms flinging around him for balance, the automatic tension tightening, then fading again, as Roarke nibbled his way down the twitching tendons of his slender throat. Long, thin fingers bit into Roark’s shoulders, clenching on cloth, his body jerking closer, even without the urging of the arm Roarke had wrapped around his back to discourage escape.

And back again, falling with a soft whoosh and a tangle of limbs into the cradle of mattress and pillows, when Roarke had arrived at the limit of what he could reach, and wanted more. Not so slow, not now—they needed the spark now; torturous buildup could come another time. But not fast, either—he had no use for a quick, mechanical release. Nick would get the sweetness, and the shivers of sensation he was due.

Fingers found again one of the nubs that peaked hard as pale rosy-brown berries, stroked. He smirked, mouth hidden against Nick’s neck, at the shiver that raced under his skin. They pinched lightly, a moment later, distracting the man from his renewed attempt to divest the mage of clothing, making Nick jolt and turn faintly accusing eyes on him. A second time, before moving to its twin and subjecting it to a similar treatment.     

“Shift yer leg, lad,” he mumbled, refusing to lift away from the warmth and sleek satiny feel of skin, even to reach down and rearrange them to a more comfortable position. Instead, little shocks licked at his nerve endings as the offending leg shifted, pressing firmly for a moment where it could do the most good or cause the most hurt, another thoroughly unnecessary whip of excitement. But this was better; now he could feel the jut of Nick’s pleasure press against him.

A wicked smile would have been playing around his lips, if he’d thought of it, if his lips hadn’t be otherwise occupied, now tracing the nipples his hand had so recently examined; by contrast, that hand was sliding lower, tugging at the ties holding braes to sharp-edged hips.

 

Nick couldn’t breathe, and he was almost certain the bed was on fire. Finally, the cord he’d been fighting with loosened with his struggles; his hands raced under the garment, over heated raw silk, cleverly slicked by the gods onto the planes of red-hot iron that must lie beneath, hard but giving under his fingertips. Ridges above the abdomen, with an intriguing bisection of soft hair disappearing into the realm beyond the mage’s waistband, ribs, only just visible to touch, which heaved and subsided against his fingers. He twitched at the feel of Roarke’s mouth on his chest, toying with his nipples, sending sizzles of electricity racing through his body like rodents fed a stimulant. In revenge, he found the mage’s, nipping at them with agile hands. The answering shudder, and Roarke’s quirked eyebrow, had Nick’s lips curving smugly.

“Tha’ all you can do?”

“Hmph. Gettin’ bored, are ye? We’ll fix tha’.”

Nick nearly choked on a thin gasp, when fingers slid down, circled his cock, and raked up, one solid squeeze that freed him and had pearly liquid beading at the tip, his back and neck arching up. His eyes, wide, then drooping to only half-open, blurred as those fingers went abruptly gentle, the contact a mere whisper, tracing shadowy patterns and pulling him back away from the knife-edge of release.

“No’—not fair—”

He hadn’t come in days, feeling strange about masturbating in a borrowed bed—so his self-brought relief tended to be hasty and infrequent, So much contact now, such intent to make him take pleasure, was doing terrible things to his control.

The mage chuckled, and muffled anything else Nick might have attempted to say with his mouth, the kiss long and slow and more than adequate to take him back to the trembly edge. Then, the only thought in his head was to cling, and to rock against the hand that held him so loosely caged.

The shoulders he clung to shifted, the mouth lifted away, all of a sudden, dropping him into the plush sea of pillows—were there somehow more?—and he fought up again, blinking blurry eyes like a sun-struck owl; only to flop down, nearly reduced to helpless keening, as, once again, mouth replaced fingers, and fingers dipped lower; weighing and playing with the velvet-covered sac that sought to draw tight and release its bounty. His teeth sank into his lower lip, fighting back the thin sounds choking up his throat. No part of his lover was available to cling to, as he was lower, out of reach but barely, and busily intent on turning every muscle Nick owned to water and every thought to fluff. His hands instead fisted in the bed clothes, trying to serve as anchor and failing quite miserably against currents of pleasure that were gleefully bordering on pain.

So he writhed, seeking _more-less-wait-don’t stop!_ , until his breath, already spotty, came in sobs and pants and noiseless whimpers. His braes, dragged only to his knees, tangled him further, making it phenomenally difficult to thrust up his hips seeking more; leaving him to tremble.

And still, Roarke denied him. Those strong digits had wrapped tightly at his base, halting the last teetering step required, even while Roarke teased and tormented with tiny kisses and licks. Gasps and sobs of breath were ignored, as were the few outright pleas. Exclamations— _‘Roarke!_ , cried out once in a hitching tone half an octave too high—were met only with an amused quirk of the lips, and a chuckle that vibrated straight to his core. 

He twitched, minutely, when the mage’s free hand ventured lower, fought with his pants, shoving them out of the way, and explored the crevice that halved his ass, stroking the cheeks, the dark line of it, wedging slightly under to lift him, fingers curling against the pucker there.

The feel of warm liquid slithering against sensitized skin was odd enough to have him shifting, reaching with more determination for Roarke. Another flutter of sensation brushed against his perineum, more insistently this time, sparking the distant beginnings of nervousness and driving shudders of crackling power up his spine.

“Nae farther than yer comf’rtable with,” Roarke murmured, hardly any of his attention taken away from the weeping cock in hand. One finger, slicked in hastily conjured oil, pressed gently, easing the orifice slightly open before retreating. Again, and again, until he could feel the crook of the mage’s fingertip within, an odd, invasive feeling he really wasn’t sure he liked—

A firestorm drowned any thought of protest and ripped a strangled cry from his throat, as finally, _finally_ , Roarke took him deep, throat and mouth working, and simultaneously released him; shoving him over the edge into the bottomless abyss. 

 

His eyes fluttered back open to the strange feel of in-out, in-out dragging at the flesh of his ass, sending skitters of sensation through abused and pleasure-numbed nerves. It felt...not _bad_ , but it wasn’t good, either; it didn’t feel quite….right. Strange and foreign and not entirely on the sweet side of pain, even with the oil Roarke used.

“’t takes a while tae get accustomed tae this,” the mage murmured, shifting, sliding so that he could prop himself on an elbow beside Nick’s hip, close enough that Nick could feel the heat pouring off him, feel the heavy hardness that pressed so insistently against his leg, his body close enough, now, to reach. “Worth’t, though, Ah promise ye.”

“’s strange.” He grimaced at the tug, the slippery tension, of Roarke’s finger pulling away, as though it drew his innards away with it. It was better—slightly—when it pressed in. Then he merely felt too-full, breeched in a place he’d never conceieved could be breeched. It didn’t make sense, not at all, but just was. “Cannae—erg, cannae be cl-clean.” There was a thought almost as uncomfortable as the act, and sent a curl of horror through him.

But Roarke chuckled, leaned down to press an amused kiss to his shoulder. “Yer clean, boy-o. There’re ways, an’ magic only makes’t easier. Dinna fret.” The finger slid back in, slowly, slowly, to the base, cleaving a bit deeper than he had before, and crooked a bit, making Nick jolt as he felt it press to an inner wall and shift.

“Roarke, I’m no’—” startled away from discomfort, he gasped, arched, trembled. “Oh. _Oh._ ”

“Loike Ah said, ‘s worth ‘t.” The mage withdrew slightly, struck home again. Fire flooded through him, hotter and harder than ever before. He was hard again, Nick marveled, when his eyes cleared. So soon.

“Two fingers, Nick,” they nudged, slid, spread him. “Yer tight.” 

Horror bloomed again, in a slightly different incarnation. “D-dinna tell me—”

“Nae?” the arm he used to hold himself up shifted, under Nick’s shoulders to support his head and neck, lifting him for another kiss. His fingers were doing wicked things, spreading and stretching; kneeding, almost, until he felt less tight and simply _full_ again.

“Yer blushin’. M’ Ah embarrassin’ ye? Mm,” Roarke took his kiss, and another, before shifting his attention to Nick’s throat again. The sweet flush of red was here, too. He smiled. “Yer sweet, lad. Ah’m’ givin’ ye three, aye?”

“Wait—” he clutched at his lover. Three fingers inside him, when two already felt as though they’d filled him, completely, to bursting? There was a burn of stretching this time, a small pain that seemed only to heighten the sensation of being full. It mixed with the pleasure, the insane heat, making his heart pound too hard, too fast, making him woozy and floaty; making him desperate. “Gods!”

“A bit more, lad, jist a bit.” The digits pumped within him. The strangeness hadn’t eased, not really, but the pleasure, that was worth it. It was worth almost anything. Nick could feel the build-up, the coiling heat, climbing higher and higher. And remembered, abruptly, that Roarke hadn’t—

“W—wait. You, you ‘ave nae—”

“Ah will,” he promised, another twisting grind against that inner point making Nick’s eyes blurr before he slid them out, leaving him empty and spasming with the strangeness. “Lemme oop, tae get oot o’ these bloody clothes.” He reared back, stripped systematically, robes, shirt, belt, pants, uncaring where they landed, baring himself to Nick’s view.

The mage was big, Nick thought, still working at catching his breath; big and lean, all over. Broad shoulders, strong chest, trim waist, with muscle sliding under the pale gold skin as he moved; his gaze lingered first at tops of his shoulders—the thin black lines of ink that lay there were fascinating—and then tracked down, followed the line of silky darkly-copper hairs down. Stared, for a brief moment, his eyes widening involuntarily, before they flashed back up. Roarke, watching the color of those moonstone eyes deepen, saw another layer of awareness flair.

“Ye trust me, Nick?” he didn’t pull his gaze away, even while he reached for the bottle of oil and poured more into the cup of his hand, coated his hands evenly.

There was a moment of silence, and then Nick nodded. “Enough.”

As he’d hoped. Roarke nodded, a silent breath sighing out of him. “T’will go easier if yer on yer front, Ah think. A’ least the first time. If tha’s uncomfortable fer ye, we can do’t ana number o’ ways.” 

Nick considered, nodded. Then sat up, as fluidly as was possible with so hard a cock hampering him, and insidious strangeness lingering inside. “First, I want tae touch you.”

He pushed lightly against the mage’s shoulders, earning a raised eyebrow, but Roarke accepted, reclined. Grinned, for a moment, as Nick eyed him, decided how he wanted to go about it. And lost his grin when the man simply clambered atop him, to sit astride the mage’s waist, as light and easy as he would sit astride Tala, a smug quirk to pale lips as the move pinned Roarke’s arms to his sides—Nick wouldn’t stand long for being left at the whims of another, any other, not without equal retribution.

The smug faded into concentration quickly, though. Hands came first to torment the mage, narrow, artistic hands with long slender fingers, brushing his features as would a blind man. They were callused, as were Roarke’s, but infinitely delicate, the touch no more than butterfly wings. Going farther afield, his fingers tangled in fiery hair, threading through it without tugging, enjoying the cool silk feel, then returned to flesh, tracing the line of shoulders, collarbone, breastbone.

“Wot’re these?” He brushed a fingertip over the beginnings of the marks.

“M-mage marks,” Roarke managed, surprised that they seemed to tingle and shift on his skin.

Nick bent then, fascinated by the tiny stutter he’d detected, touched lips to lips. Drew away again, before Roarke could do more than taste, smiled distractedly, and went for his throat. Lips grazed, soothing and exciting at once, teeth scraped, a solid bolt of electricity straight to the groin that had the mage twitching. As Roarke had, Nick moved lower, to gnaw lightly on his collarbone, fingers seeking and finding his nipples, rolling and tweaking them.

“Bugger‘t—Nick!” Roarke surged slightly under him, breaking his concentration, and unsettling his seat. He straightened immediately, and frowned down, intrigued by the flush highlighting the mage’s cheekbones, the fire blazing in black eyes. “T’willna last long if ye keep tha’ oop.”

“Hmm,” Nick responded, and rocked his hips, creating friction against the length of heat and rigidity that rose against his ass. Roarke’s response—a wordless, feral growl—was enthralling. “I think I’ll risk it.”

“Oh, ye will, will ye? Little ‘ellcat.” Roarke bucked his hips more fiercely this time, freed his arms. Seized Nick, despite the slickness of his hands, dragged him down to ravage his mouth, and flipped them both, putting himself back on top.

“You cheated,” Nick panted, eyes narrow with mock reproach, when Roarke lifted his head.

The mage chuckled, but his face was hard and his eyes blazing. “All’s fair, lad.” Fingers slippery with fragrant oil traced a line down the center of Nick’s chest. “Ye ready?”

“I suppose, aye. Nervous,” he admitted when Roarke’s eyes went concerned and gentle on him, making him uncomfortable. To avoid the look, he flopped to his side, wriggled so that he lay on his chest. Closed his eyes. “Jist do’t, already.” Roarke wouldn’t ask it of him unless it would be good for them both; same, he’d not suggest it if it would hurt him, that wasn’t the mage’s way.

“Relax, then, best ye can.” Two fingers, then three slipped into him, just to be sure he had relaxed, to prepare him. Nick blinked, and shivered at how deep they went, how it felt when they drew away. “Breathe, lad,” the mage instructed, lifting Nick up to his knees, and guiding himself, well-slicked with the oil, to the pucker of muscle. “Easy, naow.” And gently pressed, sliding in centimeter by measly centimeter.

Nicodemus wasn’t a stranger to discomfort, and his tolerance for pain was high. But in that place, with so many bundled nerves, every one of them scraped raw, the burn of stretching was nearly unendurable, and the slickness made the slow pressure inexorable—at the same time, the sensation was incredibly arousing. Pain and odd pleasure mingled into some fantastical concoction of feeling. He shuddered and tensed in waves, spasming, from his fingers, curled tightly around the soft sheets, to where their two bodies connected, all the way down to his toes, curling and tensing, resistant to his efforts to control the movements, to stop them. Not coming, not yet, but close, staved off only by his earlier orgasm. His breathing jumped from quick immediately into quivering gasps, rasping against the sheets because his face was pressed to them, and his heartbeat was abruptly thundering hard enough to bruise the inside of his ribcage.

In, and in, and still further in; slowly, but smoothly. Nick could feel the quiver of Roarke’s muscles as the mage fought for control and concentrated on _slow_ —he could almost hear the shout of it from the mage’s mind. One arm came forward to brace beside his head, the knuckles pale with effort, the other hand had slipped under him, supporting his hips until he could shift his knees more firmly under him, and holding them still. Until finally the whole of Roarke’s length was seated fully within Nick, and they were both frozen, panting and shivering. The mage had been correct—it was easier this way, face pressed to the sheets, able to mask to some extent how effected he was. _Far_ easier than being folded and positioned, pinioned.

“ _Gods_. Ah—alroight? Nick?” the mage’s voice was gravel and splintered stone, audible, but only just.

For a moment, Nick found he’d forgotten how precisely to work his tongue. His first attempt came out garbled, a sound half-way to mumble and muffled by bedclothes. The second was more successful. “Urh—I-I’m…I’m alroight. Aye. Um.” Cautiously, he shifted; trembled when the movement pulled him slightly away from Roarke, almost sighed when he shifted back, and everything returned to how it was. “Ye—you can… ah, move. If ye want.”  

Ponderously, the mage did, shallow in-and-outs at first, then farther. A slight tilt in angle eased the process, another minute shift rewarded them both as it had Roarke’s length riding along that spot within him that had electrical fire shooting straight through him, making him clench like a fist around the mage, whimpering into the bedding.

This time, it was the mage who came, every muscle locking and a deep humming growl rumbling in his chest, hips rocking in short, swift jabs that stabbed deep and had Nick moaning into the bedding. He brought Nick to fiery climax seconds later, another nudge inside and a few firm strokes to his weeping cock, letting him buck and tremble in tandem with the mage, so that when they collapsed limply into the pillows, exhausted by the sheer range of pleasure, it was together.

 

More oddness, he though blearily. Lying quiet and content with another, pleasantly exhausted and still quivering slightly with the aftereffects of really amazing sex. Roarke’s arms were roped around him, the mage’s lanky body pressed to his back, exuding enough heat to chase away the slight chill of drying sweat and inactivity. Dozy and drifting, even, and inexplicably soothed by the feel of another’s pulse surrounding his own.

What seemed a long time later, a flicker of magic cleaned the sheets. Nick blinked at the disturbance, frowned when the mage, evidently recovered, eased up, depriving him of warmth, and strode, unabashedly naked, across the room to the wash basin. Nick remained where he was, shifting to lie more comfortably on his back, still dozing. His eyes tracked the mage’s movements, but with a relaxing absence of thought.

 When the mage came back, and smiled, he returned it, a hazy curve of his lips, then twitched as a warm damp cloth stroked over his abdomen, then lower, blinking as it pulled him further into awareness.

“You don’ ‘ave tae—”

“Ah’m ‘appy tae do’t,” Roarke replied, catching the hand he’d lifted to tug the cloth away, and replacing it by his side, lifting it first to his lips. “Ye’ll be more comfortable like this. ‘ere, lift oop.”

He complied with a sigh, vaguely uncomfortable with the fuss but unwilling to lose the quiet relaxation to the awkwardness of making an issue of it. Beside, the heat and the damp _were_ nice, easing away the mild ache of soreness.

There was a thought, floating somewhere in the back of his mind that he should go now. But Roarke sliding in beside him again, gathering him against the solidity of his body, stymied any moves to make the thought reality. And this was better, somehow.

“Go tae sleep, Nick,” Roarke murmured, stroking a hand down the silky expanse of his back, tracing the tiny bumps of his spine. With the warmth and the contact and the content, Nick slept within minutes.


	20. Chapter 20

 

It was less than an hour ‘til dawn when he opened his eyes, and jerked with shock at his position. There were arms around him, a shoulder beneath his head, a body entwined with his. Roarke’s, obviously, he remembered the whole of last night—but what on _earth_ had possessed him to stay the night?

“Settle daown, lad,” the mage mumbled, his eyes still closed and voice husky with sleep, tightening his arms to halt any retreat, “’s nae yet dawn.”

“I ‘ave to go.” He needed the distance, the time to rearrange himself to this new development, to settle away the instinctive panic. This wasn’t right, wasn’t how it _worked_.

“Nae regrets ‘til af’er breakfast, Nick. ‘s too early tae argue,” Roarke rasped. There was a moment of silence, as though he’d gone back to sleep, and Nick prepared to edge his way out. He froze when Roarke spoke again. “Give’t ten minutes, Ah’ll let ye loose then.”

“Roarke, you canna jist keep me ‘ere!” Now he did struggle, not seriously—he wasn’t after hurting either of them, but enough to make the mage open his eyes, consider him. And smile, cock an eyebrow.

“Ye dinna think sae?” Still grinning, he ducked his head.

“Tha’ wasna—godsdamnit!” The hands holding him hostage had shifted, shot heat through him. “Tha’ wasna a challenge, Roarke! _Roarke!_ ”

 

Ten minutes later, Roarke sat up, stretched. Glanced over and down, couldn’t quite help the chuckle that escaped. Sprawled limbs were still quivering, and now it was silver eyes that were closed as with sleep.

“There ye are, lad, yer ten minutes ‘re up, an’ ye’ve been loosed. Off wit’ ye naow, hmm?”

Nick’s reply was short and explicit, and it was another few minutes before he managed the strength to roll over and away.

He was sore, he found in disgust, finding a cloth and cleaning himself, before tugging his shirt on—not terribly so, but just enough that it would remind him throughout the day how he’d spent his night, and his thigh muscles felt weak and wobbly. And he could feel the weight of amused black eyes on his back, which was highly irritating, given the previous ten minutes. He’d never realized he could be brought to climax, from only the vague erectness that comes of sleep, so very (very) quickly.

Roarke watched him, let him stew a while. “Before Ah forget, Nick. Ye’ll need tae choose a different room tha’ ye loike.”

Now he frowned, confused rather than irritated, and turned to look at the mage. “Why?”

“The anti-magic wards’re workin’ tae hard wit’ ye sleepin’ in there, unbound. They’re complex, an’ a bit fragile when’t comes tae that much energy.”

That made sense. But… “Where would I be movin’ to?”

Roarke shrugged. “Anawhere ye want, really.” The mage moved, finally, climbing off the bed in a languorous movement, a cat who’d gotten cream, canary, and the best beam of sunlight all in one go. “Ye’ve been ‘ere more’n a month, ye’ve a fair idea o’ the rooms.”

“I’ll give’t some thought,” Nick replied, edging away before he could be detained again, yanking on pants and boots. Roarke followed suit, but limited himself to merely braes, hitched loosely up to hips and only barely fastened, and padded barefooted and noiseless over to him.

“Nae, Ah’ll no’ delay ye,” the mage said when Nick stiffened, laughter in his black eyes. “This first, tho’.” A big hand cupped his chin, tilted it that Roarke could plant a thorough kiss on his lips. “Off wit’ ye then, Nick. There’s things tae be done.”

 

Perhaps, the mage thought, placing the bowl he’d just taken from Nick on the table, it had been a mistake to handle the morning’s awkwardness the way he had. The younger man was jittery now, and had obviously started thinking again, sometime between dawn and the noon meal, if the worry buried in the light lines of his face were indicative of anything. He’d be carrying a hefty load of tension in his shoulders and back by nightfall, and he hadn’t once dropped the wary wall of distance he cloaked himself in—in fact, he’d spent the majority of the time spent preparing the meal shooting assessing glances toward the mage, and twitching out the the way, as though he half-expected Roarke to grab him and make love to him there on the table, in front of Ghada and the children.

It would be the mess of his parentage, at least partially, that put the frown in his eyes. Roarke sat at the table, responded to a question from Ghada without shifting more than a quarter of his attention to the query, and watched from under his eyelashes as Nick scrubbed away the dirt of the barn in the big wash basin. His parentage, yes, and their having slept together. Possibly the matter of having actually slept in the same bed, rather than the sex, but intimacy took many forms; he wasn’t overly bothered by Nick’s nervousness of getting close, as there were always ways of circumventing it.

He was quite bothered by having added to the stress, though. It hadn’t been his goal; informing them of a possibility had, with the notion of forewarned being forearmed; and the result was that his telling had become the catalyst of several irritating side effects, like the most current bout of chronic tension.

But, he mused as the man slipped away, dodging Ghada’s request to eat something, off to hide in the library, there were things that could be done about that.

 

           

“Aa—wait,” Nick managed to spit out, writhing and gripping Roarke’s shoulders with hard hands and blunt, biting nails. His lesson had ended abruptly, barely a second after he’d settled his magic, with the mage’s hands seeking skin and finding it, his hard body pinning Nick’s against the sturdy table in the training room so that it dug painfully into his lower back. “Ah’ll stop if ye tell me. Say yes,” the mage had growled, and wreaked havoc on his mouth the second he’d managed to choke the word out, fervent.

It mattered little enough, though, that it was rough and hurried, as he was already hard; to his mortification, had been through the entirety of his lesson. He was already arching to fit against Roarke, half in plea, half to escape the hard hands that had made such quick work of the placket of his braes, leaving them to sag down his thighs, and were stroking along his flanks, over his ass, finding the crevice there and measuring its breadth with his fingers.

The mage didn’t wait, hitching him up and pressing further until Nick was flat on his back across the table, legs scrabbling helplessly for purchase. Their positioning became suddenly much less important, the braes pushed down and left to tangle his ankles, tossed over the mage’s shoulders when the redhead crouched, quite interested with what he’d bared of concealing cloth.

Roarke enjoyed this, the tactile, oral contact with the man’s most sensitive area. Possibly too much; he was already dampening the front of his pants with precum. But it was no hardship to concentrate on his lover. Nick tasted good; sweet and salty, with only an edge of bitter. He wasn’t a loud lover, either, which Roarke found, abruptly, he preferred—one had to work to elicit true gasps and moans. Even now, arched over a table and trembling, his hands white at the knuckles where he clutched the edge of the thick, scarred wood, Roarke could only barely hear the rasp of his breathing, though he could see the hitch of it, glancing up from his current endeavor. A gentle hum in the back of his throat and then a brief moment of hollowed cheeks and slip-sliding tongue had the first choked noise bursting forth, set the narrow, sharp-boned hips to rocking.

The mage shifted back, enough to lap delicately at the soft velvet that graced Nick’s tip. He’d been cut, just as Roarke, just as all males of the North, days after birth. It made for smooth, unhindered strokes, teasing little circles around the slit—those, he learned, Nick was particularly partial to, if the breathy curses from up above meant anything.

He liked the veins, prominent and dark against the dusky rose hue of Nick’s engorged cock, and the fluted rim of the mushroom-head crown. The mage examined both with great care, studying the varying reactions to his experiments.

“Loike tha’, d’ye?” he inquired, palming and playing with the tight sac at Nick’s base. From the gurgle he received in response, he supposed so, and continued, wanting the man’s breath to sob audibly, interspersed with the tiny choked whimpers he found so adorable.      

But it was the place just above those tightening balls, and just below the twitching cock that had the most interesting effect. Pressing a kiss there, chaste, save for its location, had Nick’s body arching like a bridge, the slim muscles drawing tight as wires, a thin cry bursting loose.

He babbled, curses mostly, when the mage did it again, balls drawing up tight, writhing in earnest now, with legs shifting against Roarke’s shoulders, heels pressing tightly to his back, the thin-soled boots still clinging to his ankles and calves hardly noticible. The shifting freed one of his legs from his pants, letting them fall apart further, spreading so that Roarke could get closer.

“D—dinna—” there were the sobs and wheezes Roarke’d wanted, where pleasure had wrapped its tight arms around Nick chest and squeezed until breathing was difficult. His body was hot, on fire from the inside, and his cock was dribbling precum, so hard it ached. “I’m goin’ tae—”

Soft puffs of warm air coasted across his sensitized flesh as the mage chuckled. Instead of replying, though, he laid his lips in that exact spot again, agile tongue flicking out to taste.

Like a spring wound too tight and abruptly let go, orgasm hit with a hot, almost painful punch of sensation that seemed to last forever, teased out by Roarke’s ministrations, which grew abruptly harder and erratic. Each individual pulse was an electric shock, dragging the next after it, and the next, and the next, until he finally lay spent and limp, with muscles like water and bones of lead.

“Whell,” he heard Roarke mutter with the accompanying rustle of cloth, seconds later. “Fuck.”

Gathering the strength necessary, he opened his eyes, attempted to lift his head. Found that the gesture had been thankfully unnecessary, as the mage had stood, still between his spread knees, and let it drop back again, considering the looming man with eyes half-open. Roarke was smiling bemusedly at him, an odd quirk of his lips, brushing distractedly at the thick liquid that had splattered into his hair, enjoying the feast for the eyes stretched out before him.

Nick winced. He’d made a mess; his seed had gushed against the mage’s face, falling over lips and across a cheekbone, but the majority of it had ended up on his neck and in his red mane. It was disturbing, on a personal level—it seemed so…discourteous.

“Roarke—” Mortification brought strength, let him lurch up from his supine position. His hand was half-way to the mage’s face before it hesitated. A copper eyebrow rose, seemingly both curious and challenging him to complete the motion. With a moue of distaste at needing to be goaded into doing anything, his fingers landed, tried to wipe away the rapidly drying ejaculate. It only smeared, though, despite his efforts, which made him wince again.

“Wot’s th’ matter, Nick?” Roarke inquired softly, voice quite deep. “Dinna ye loike seein’ ‘t there?”

He blinked, perturbed by the question. No, not especially—he wasn’t quite sure why the mage wasn’t irritated, either. It was one thing for the creamy, bitter liquid to be swallowed, if one’s partner was of a mind to accept—far and away a different matter to coat their face in the stuff.

Long fingers curled around his wrist, slowly, lightly, and drew his hand down, to Roarke’s long, almost-smiling mouth. He blinked again at the feel of the mage’s tongue curling around the tips of his fingers, stealing away the salty taste, and shuddered heavily at the bolt of warmth that shot through him.

“Ah dinna mind’t much, mahself.” The last of the fluid gone, the mage’s fingers folded Nick’s, held them that a kiss could be pressed over their backs, and swiped a sleeve over his cheek. “Le’s get cleaned oop, then.”                   

“Ah. You didna. Um.” This was the second time, damn it, that he’d had to say those words. Gods Almighty, what was _wrong_ with him? Why couldn’t he keep his head long enough to see to his partner’s pleasure? But Roarke was grinning at him again, black eyes warm and soft and wickedly amused, summoning blood to flood his cheeks, flustering him beyond imagining.

“Yer enough, lad.”

Irritation bloomed, choked out embarrassment. “I’m glad you feel tha’ way. It doesna make _me_ feel better,” Nick groused, hopping down from his perch on the table’s edge onto unsteady legs and snatching up his trousers, fought with the laces.

If anything, the mage’s grin grew. “Gods, ye’re cute, aren’t ye?” To halt the younger man’s sputtering, he brushed a hand over Nick’s cheek in a fond caress. “As Ah said, yer enough. Sae le’s go an’ wash oop, shall we?”

Nick’s eyes rounded, flashed downwards, even though dark cloth betrayed nothing. Shot back up as his cheeks flooded again with hot color. “Oh. I—um. Ah.”

“Indeed.”


	21. Chapter 21

If he hadn’t already been having sex with the mage on what appeared was going to be a regular basis, for this, Nick decided, he’d have seduced him. Liquid heat lapped softly at his body, soothing away what tension orgasm hadn’t, and leaving him languid, almost to the point of purring. If he could have found a way to avoid drowning, he’d have curled up and gone to sleep, there and then.

Roarke appeared to feel much the same, sprawled on the low shelf of rounded stone, face and hair clean, finally relaxed enough that the faint expression of vigilance drained away from his face, the subtle stress from his body. Instead, his eyes were closed, head tilted back, presenting the surprisingly lovely length of his throat.

It occurred to Nick, stifling the mild fantasy of running his teeth over the pale span of vulnerable muscle, that he’d never once seen the mage have to visibly concentrate on unwinding.

“Why are you sae worried?” he wondered aloud.

Black eyes cracked open, and he looked for a moment like he’d sit up, before he thought the better of it, and remained still and calm. “Wot’dye mean?”

“You were...tense,” Nick said, a wave of his hand shooing the word he searched for toward him. “Yer neva tense.”

“Ah’m tense sometimes.”

“An’ now you’re defensive,” Nick pointed out. Relaxation had left him energized and alert. Curious, too, in a strange sort of way. And a bit… worried.

The mage raised an eyebrow, his eyes closed again as he sought to regain his earlier lack of concrete thought. “Sae Ah am. Strange.”

“What’re you thinking, then?”

Roarke shrugged minutely. “…’s a mixture o’ things. Allaidh’s coming intae the Sight, sae ‘e’s been twitchy an’ restless. Mora’s nervous o’ ‘t, sae she’s twitchy tae. Ah dinna loike nae hearin’ from Alasdair—an’, aye, Ah ken ‘s been only a day. One o’ mah former students gist dropped away from where Ah can scry. ‘e’s a battlemage yet, an’ there’s naught Ah kin do fer ‘im from here but watch. Another’s been oout o’ mah sight fer years, wit’oout a word. Yer mum’s got unmarked soldiers oot. An’ Ah’m thinkin’ the wards aught tae be strengthened sooner, rather’n later.” He shrugged again, qualified it all with: “Things.”

“Plenty tae worry over,” Nick noted. He’d pick over the bit about his mother later; for now, he wasn’t sure he wanted the mage to stop talking. It seemed to be helping ease away the strain. “D’you always keep tabs on yer old students?”

He nodded absently, the light lines around his eyes looking less deep, which relieved Nick. “Mos’ly, they’re mine by adoption.”

“Sae Mòra an’ Allaidh don’ ‘ave parents? Kenna?” He was attached to her, particularly. Something about the sweetness of the little girl drew him, the soft, shy gold eyes that gleamed content and trust so easily, firing up the protective instincts he didn’t allow to surface often.

“Mòra does. Bastards. Ah doubt’t Allaidh does, but Ah dinna ken. Kenna does. Her father’s a former student o’ mine. Her mother’s gone on.”

Nick nodded. “Why’s she here then, rather than with ‘im?”

“’e ran afoul o’ some mess when she was jist a babe, an’ he wanted ‘er safe. Sae Ah took ‘er. He’s nae managed tae get back yet.” He frowned, just a bit, but enough that Nick, watching so closely, saw.

“You trained ‘im. When ‘e can come back, I’m sure ‘e will,” Nick said bracingly. He contemplated edging closer, distracting the mage in a different manner, but decided against it. There were lines, and he wouldn’t step over them so soon, not until he was quite sure of what lay beyond them.

Black eyes flickered open, darted briefly to Nick, before they closed again, and he let amusement chase the rest of the stress away. Oh, the lad thought he was slick, didn’t he? The cute little bastard. And correct – there was nothing he could do but wait, and watch, and keep his charges from harm. It did only damage to fuss over things he had no power over. So, for now, he’d let it go, not the least because it was clearly bothering Nick.

So they sat in quiet for a time, enjoying the warmth, the soothing wet. In wordless agreement both men climbed out, just before Nick’s head started to spin with the heat, and dressed, pulling on a bare minimum of clothing, skin shivering and comfortable with the cool of the halls after the heat of the subterranean chamber. They padded barefoot, with hair still dripping, back to Roarke’s chambers, again in unanimous, wordless accord.     

 

Sex was easy enough, Nick decided, trying to curb the tremors of sensation that were skittering over his skin. It was intense and mind-blowing with the mage, yes, but easy enough to deal with. Mutual physical pleasure. That was all.

Breath hissed softly between his teeth as Roarke bit gently down on one of his nipples, sending a shock of pleasure through him, then the mage soothed the mark with his tongue. And he was a liar—this wasn’t just sex. If this had been ‘just sex’, he’d not be forcing the mage to roll over, making himself copy the mage’s habit of touching freely and unihbitedly; wouldn’t be exploring Roarke’s lean, magnificent chest and abdomen with his mouth, desirous of watching black eyes glaze. There would have been no sense of worry earlier—perhaps he’d not even know the mage’s name, if this were ‘just sex’.

It was disturbing, in a way, to realize he preferred it this way.

Hands tangled in his hair. It was an intriguing feeling, not one he could remember having ever received before. Not painful, though there was an interesting slippery-tugging to it as Roarke’s fingers slid through the still-damp strands. He took it as an invitation to lap at the lines of the mage’s hips, not so prominent as his but chiseled and bladed all the same; seeking the various erogenous places scattered liberally across his lover’s body until those long, powerful fingers tightened spasmodically. He smiled against a spot, just inside the bracket of Roarke’s left hip, making fluid muscles clench and skin shudder under the touch.

Nick drew away after a moment, kneeling at the apex of the mage’s spread thighs, pleased with the soft rasp invading his lover’s breathing,

“Ye’re nae thinkin’ o’ leavin’ me this way, lad?” far from worried, the quiet question was a taunt, spoken with wicked eyes a’dancin’ over smirking lips.

“Loike this, you mean?” Feeling bold, he encircled Roarke’s erection with a hand, loose and teasing. “I don’ know, Roarke, yer quieter like this.” An undulation of his hips had their cocks sliding against one another, a tantalizing promise of pleasure to come that had sparks showering the nerves hiding beneath his spine.

“Brat,” Roarke replied, a slight hitch to his voice, his hands hard where they had slipped down to grip his hips, pulling Nick closer again. The younger man chuckled softly, and let him, feeling marvelously free. Roarke, he was beginning to accept, truly wasn’t after controlling him, currying favor (who would he be after impressing, after all?), or anything else. Even if it were a mutual arrangement of physical pleasure, it wasn’t a sterile, cold-blooded bargain hastily consummated in the dark.

This was how it should be, he thought, tipping back his head to nibble Roarke’s throat while the mage rocked them against one another. Warm, easy affection, strong sexual attraction, and a lover who knew enough to understand what was too much. And if the price for this was sleeping in the same bed, it was something he was willing to allow, even if it made him vaguely uneasy.

He was inching closer to completion, the tightening, heavy feeling low in his belly a warning that there was only so much more he could stand.

He left off Roarke’s neck with a soft moan, to drop his forehead to the mage’s collarbone, his teeth sinking into his lower lip to try and stave off the release crowding forward.

“Le’ go, lad.”

He made a sound of protest. “Dinna want—” he didn’t want to come yet, to lose the build-up that swelled so sweetly.

“Nay?” there was a wealth of amusement in the mage’s voice. One of his hands shifted, wrapped around to cup his ass. “Ye’d rather this, maybe?” his fingertips brushed along the crevice between both cheeks, skimming the sensitive flesh there. “Or my mouth, mayhaps?”

Nick shook his head, not trusting his voice, until the fingertips brushed again and drew at shiver.

“That.” He wanted to try that again, wanted to be positive that last night (only last night? It seemed so much longer) hadn’t been an aberration.

“Ye sure? Ye’ll be sore,” Roarke warned, stroking again along the line of him and shooting fire up his spine in an unexpected arc.

“Put ‘t in,” he growled it, refusing to have Roarke tease him to climax. Not now, anyway. He wanted the modicum of control penetration afforded him this time, and the knowledge that Roarke would be just as affected as he by it.

“As ye wish,” the mage allowed, and magic tinged the air. Now oil coated the fingers that slid against his body, dipping in and drawing away.

Roarke’s preparation was more than adequate, and continued well past when Nick started squirming for more, past verbal requests for it, until the man simply growled, and bit him, none-too-gently, at the juncture of neck and shoulder. Feeling the mage jolt beneath him, he felt utterly vindicated.

“Demandin’, aren’t ye?” But it got him what he wanted, as the mage’s cock surged past the tight ring of muscle and into the soft, slick flesh beyond. He shuddered heavily, and came with just the single bump of Roarke on the special spot within, every nerve crackling like a taut vine snapping back at the sensation of the intrusion, a soft groan eking from behind clenched teeth that blended with Roarke’s, as the mage buried his face in Nick’s hair.


	22. Chapter 22

“Heels daown.” The command was barked, but without the stinging rebuke that would have indicated irritation. “Keep yer ‘ands quiet, and low.”

Kenna nodded, a frown of concentration drawing her pale eyebrows together. She looked tiny, perched high in Nick’s saddle, Tala, resigned, at a plodding walk beneath her at the end of the long line Nick controlled. It was their forth lesson, and the girl was already much improved. Allaidh and Mora looked on from the pasture fence, waiting for their turns. “Sit tall, luv, with your shoulders back. There’s a lass.”

It was full summer now, with days that stretched hot and long and nights that were brief, and pleasure-filled. The children went barefoot often as not; even Allaidh, who at a lofty fourteen acted as though he were already a man; and frequently played in the shallows of the Glass Lake.

And he’d yet to choose a room outside the magicless wing, though most of his belongings seemed to have found berths in Roarke’s chambers, in the sennight and a half since he’d first slept there. He wasn’t precisely sure how it was that that had happened, couldn’t think of a diplomatic way to rectify the situation, and really, was no longer totally convinced it needed rectifying. So he let it be.

Though he did wonder if he shouldn’t find a new way to be difficult, as a distraction of sorts. Roarke was as attentive as always, nearly irritatingly so, but Nick knew strain was mounting in the mage. Alasdair had been in touch again, but always briefly, and never with quite the same warmth between them that had been—that twisted the mage up something awful—and only the gods knew what the Empress Dowager was up to. There had been no word at all from the others Roarke had worried over.

Warm soaks in the underground pools and copious sex could only do so much, and there was little enough Nick could do about the underlying problems, knowing only what he did.

But there were some things that could be done, he knew. He’d searched out a book, hesitantly consulted with a crafty-eyed Ghada, come up with a plan.

First, though – “Kenna, you feel his gait? One, two, three, four. You should feel’t in evra joint. Good job, lass, yer gettin’ it.”

Gods, he thought a moment later, receiving a brief, shy smile, this child was easy to love.   

 

 Roarke was…hmm, he had to think a moment to find an appropriate word…bemused. Pleasantly so, but bemused, nonetheless. His Nick was acting oddly. Insistent and vaguely argumentative. Fierce, even, though not angry.

He’d refused a lesson, which had very much irritated the mage—they were important, damn it, and not to be skipped on a whim. Roarke had blinked, though, quite surprised indeed, when silver eyes had narrowed on him, a sort of cunning visible for a half-moment. But Nick’s demeanor had shifted again, sliding to a strange, easy-going grin that didn’t really suit the man’s face, and he’d requested, _sweetly_ , that Roarke wait in his chambers, and promised to make up the lesson. Almost alarmed, the mage had gone, quietly, trying the entire way to discern the reasons for the abrupt changes in his lover.

It was embarrassing to admit, even to himself, that he’d scanned the rooms, entering them. Nothing was out of place, or odd, though perhaps there were more candles lit than was absolutely necessary. They bathed the bedroom in a golden glow, soothing to his eyes, which ached faintly with the time of his heartbeat, as did his brain. But he didn’t settle on the bed, freshly made, even though he might have liked to. His lover would explain first.

Nick took his time about showing up, enough that the mage began to feel somewhat foolish, standing stock-still in the middle of his own bedroom. Irritable again, and unable to shrug it away, as was his habbit, he stripped off his shirt—the layers of outer robe and tunic had been abandoned at the onset of the seasonal heat to respect the temper of summer—letting the cooling air of evening lie on his skin, hoping for a semblance of calm. It availed him little, and the deep breaths he forced himself to take didn’t help either.

Roarke didn’t like this itchy, irritable feeling. It was what he associated with waiting, unpleasantly, for the metaphorical boot to drop. He’d prepared all he could; the wards had been strengthened two-fold this year, and he’d strung sensing spells through the inner forest alert to movement, and ill-will. Good portions of his day were now spent seeing through his familiar’s eyes, examining the forest Damh roamed for any signs of trouble.

But nothing was out of place yet. Scrying, in water or in fire, gave him little to work with—glimpses of trees, and occasionally a whiff of dark conviction that lingered greasily, like distastefully oily cheese, at the back of the throat. It was frustrating in the extreme.

On the other hand, he thought, reaching up to tug the leather cord that bound back his hair away and shaking out his red mane, sifting fingers through the strands, easing the vague discomfort of his scalp, where the tie had pulled too tightly over the hours.

The door eased open as he gave the lot of it a final rough scrub with his fingertips. Without glancing back, he knew it to be Nick; even more than Ghada, or Allaidh, Nick had perfected the art of fading effortlessly to the background when so he wished. Silent feet, not a rustle of cloth against flesh unless he let it.  

Had he been taught that skill, or learned it on his own, in the shadowy corners of Cabhad-lair?

Shaking off the dark thought, he turned; raised an eyebrow at the tray piled high with platters holding far more food than two could possibly eat. “Wot’s this, lad?”

“Supper,” came the toneless reply, the obvious underscored by the flash of dry humor over Nick’s face. “Fer later.”

“Lat’r?”

“Mm,” Nick confirmed, cryptic, as he set the tray down on a table with a muffled thump. “Yer not hungry yet, are you?” Silver eyes tracked slowly over his body, from the mane of red disordered by fingers down, down, down, all the way to his feet, and up again, lingering like sweet mead.

 _Well_ , the mage thought, not for food, no, not anymore. “Supper can wait, Ah suppose.” There was an itch in his hands, to pull some of the cloth—light and pale-toned for summer’s sake—off Nick, get him at least as bare as Roarke was himself.

But his lover stalled his step nearer with a soft word. “Wait. Let’s try’t a different way.”

He nodded after a moment, agreeable enough, though his body had begun subtly pulsing in time with his quickening heartbeat, and his cock was pressing against the constriction of his trousers. He didn’t particularly care at the moment _how_ he had Nick, or they had one another, so long as it happened sooner, rather than later. Roarke’s patience, famous for its durability, was wearing thin.

“Strip daown, then, an’ climb onto the bed, will you?” the request of it soothed on some level, settling some of the restlessness to a more manageable level of agitation. Two short moves later, he was stepping away from what had remained of his clothing, tossing it carelessly at the back of the nearer of two chairs, turning away to go to the bed before it could hit with a soft thwap. He was hard now, unabashedly so, the anticipation ratcheting his pulse higher, and his cock stood to attention as he propped himself on his elbows, the better to watch every step Nick took toward him.

 

The mage looked…dangerous. Black eyes were hard and hot, his face closed down to reveal nothing, the expression almost distant but for the gleam in his eye. Nick approached with care, contemplating his lover. It wasn’t going to be a night for playfulness, or any particular degree of gentleness; he knew that. He’d intended, originally, to try and pull some of the tension from Roarke’s muscles, the way the mage had for him. Ghada had helped him there, told him where to target, what to do, how to ease the stress away. But Roarke in this mood wasn’t going to quietly settle for a brisk massage and a long, slow fuck.

Plus, Nick imagined he’d likely hurt himself, trying to lay on his belly with his prick that hard.

So. A rearrangement of plans was called for. Taking the last step up to the bed, he stripped off his tunic, sensing that Roarke would rid him of it shortly if he didn’t, and that the mage wasn’t likely to care much whether the thin cloth survived the removal. He left his trousers as they were—they would grow uncomfortable shortly, but they might keep his mind to what was left of the plan—and climbed onto the bed, crawling to kneel between Roarke’s legs, not yet sure what he’d do with what he’d been given. The mage was hard and ready, pearly liquid already just starting to bead at his head. 

Here was perhaps the softest, silkiest skin Nick had ever felt, at direct counterpoint to the mage’s callused hands, one of which had seized Nick’s hand in an iron grip and tightened it around the length it had been exploring, drawing his hand up, up to the tip, then down again, to the base. It was hot, furnace hot, and thick enough that Nick’s fingertips only just met around him. Reassured that Nick wouldn’t draw away, Roarke’s hand released his, and fell to grip the bed clothes, tightening until his knuckles were white with tension, as Nick drew the pleasure out, stretching it over a quarter-hour.

“Stop playin’ wit’ me,” Roarke growled at last. Nick glanced up, met his gaze, tight and hard and turbulent. Beneath his hand, the mage’s hips bucked, pushing for friction. “Fuckin’ _do_ somethin’, would ye!”

Nick lifted an eyebrow at him, intrigued and amused by the reversal of roles between them—too many times, he was the one struggling and cursing for release—then ducked his head to his prize. He nuzzled, enjoying the piquant cinnamon-ginger -woodlands-in-autumn scent of Roarke, the heavier pepper-musk scent of arousal, the crisp, like-lightning scent of magic, and grinned when the mage growled again, unintelligibly this time, frustrated beyond words. Finally, he tasted, little laps that gave him the spicy-saltiness of flesh, the tart-saltiness of come—not nearly so terrible as he’d once imagined.

He played a few minutes longer, experimenting with how to lick, where to kiss, how Roarke felt in his mouth. But then the mage’s body tensed, every muscle drawn like a bowstring, and breath hissed from between his teeth, clenched against the tide of pleasure.

“Nick,” he managed, in warning.

Obediently, Nick heeded, lifting his face away—while the lack of a foul taste had been a pleasant surprise, he wasn’t sure he wanted to attempt to swallow, or find himself bathed in the stuff—and wrapped his fingers around Roarke’s girth to stroke him to his end. Roarke’s control shattered, every muscle that had been locked tight now trembling, a muffled, shuddering groan slipping away from him.

Release, he was pleased to note several minutes later, had taken some of the harshness from Roarke’s face, eased some of the intensity out of his eyes. There was still an element of danger clinging to him, but when wasn’t there?

Nick blinked when the mage sat up in a fluid movement, a hand coming out to catch his jaw in a gentle grip, drawing him the inch closer needed for Roarke to bring their lips together and for him to lose his balance, forcing him to steady himself with a hand pressed deep into the mattress by the mage’s hip, looming over the mage as their mouths mated.

The kiss was fiery, pantomiming the sex act energeticly, making the ache of his cock; straining mightily against his trousers, go from uncomfortable to unbearable in a heartbeat. Shuddering, hands abruptly a-tremble, he fumbled one-handed with the laces, trying to loosen the cloth cage.

“Poor lad,” Roarke murmured, no small amount amused, drawing back just enough to see what he struggled with. “Ah’ve left ye behind.” Long fingers brushed his aside, made quick work of the fastenings, freeing Nick to the cool of the room. “Ah’ll take care o’ this, aye, then ye can do whateva t’was tha’ ye were plannin’.”

His face, drawn into lines of erotic torment and tilted down as he struggled to contain himself, must have seemed puzzled for a moment, for Roarke gave a strange huffing laugh. “Come, Nick, ye canna think tha’ Ah didna ken yer oop tae somethin’?”

Nick’s reply, such as it was, was a desperate sound from the very back of his throat. He didn’t know if it was agreement or denial, just that if the mage didn’t do something quickly, he’d go out of his head—but when he tried to take himself in hand, Roarke pulled his fingers away, casting them aside. “Ah-ah, none o’ tha’, boy-o. Consider ‘t punishment fer skippin’ class. Ah’ll do’t, when Ah’m ready.”

Aghast, Nick lifted his head, trying to catch his breath enough to protest. “—Bu’—bu’—”

The mage only laughed softly in response.

“Tha’s quite a face,” Roarke commented, black eyes amused and warm. The mage was fully aware that his lover was teetering on the edge of orgasm. He’d let Nick come in a moment, but as he’d said, it was quite a look that scrawled across the younger man’s face: sensual tension gone to anguish, an intriguing type of horror at his refusal to give immediate aid, which gleamed in his eyes much the same as wordless pleading . And something deeper, as of yet indecipherable, but it struck him as deep and hot and sweet.

“Alroight, luv, alroight, Ah’ve got ye,” he soothed a moment later, giving Nick the pressure and friction he’d sought, his other arm wrapping around to pull Nick forward against his body. The man gave willingly, his quaking form melting to the mage’s bonelessly. It took but a minute for a final shudder to wrack Nick’s body, a thin noise muffled by Roarke’s bare shoulder.

“Mad about tha’, are you?” Nick inquired, once the rest of the tremors had faded from his limbs and he could begin contemplating sitting up. He remained where he was for the moment, inwardly amused by the comfort he took of it, when none too long ago he’d have fallen over himself trying to escape such an embrace.

“We’ll say ‘irritated’,” the mage corrected mildly, settling comfortably into the mass of pillows, thumb starting to stroke, back and forth along the silky skin of his ribs. “Naow, oot wit’ ‘t, lad. Wot is ‘t tha’ yer oop tae?”

Nick shrugged negligently. “I’d been thinkin’ massage, to take some of the tension out o’ you.” He poked lightly at the muscles of the arm Roarke had draped over him, relaxed but still delineated beneath warm skin. “Food without the madness o’ trying tae corral the children. Sex,” he slanted a wry look up, “but ‘t seems we’ve gotten tae tha’ portion of things already.”

“Ah imagine we can make our way back tae ‘t.”


	23. Chapter 23

It wasn’t possible that a man could simply vanish, like smoke on the wind, but for all intents and purposes, Nicodemus Secondson had.

They rested for the night, two days into this strange, uneasy forest, where a lack of supplies and pelting thunderstorms had driven them. Wolves howled, too close for comfort, and the trees loomed dark and ancient, gnarled and twisted. The horses, as battle-trained and steady as any ever to ride under the Empress’s banner, spooked and started at shadows and the crackle of dead leaves beneath their hooves.

His men were nervous, restless with the lack of progress, hungry from the partial portions their meals had whittled down to. The captain, taking the third watch in the deep-dark before the gloaming, contemplated his options. He needed to get them out of here, needed to find their quarry and return as quickly as possible to Cabhadh-làir. This mission had already drawn out far too long, for while the Empress had not repeated the words of banishment, the captain was intelligent enough to understand failure would not be accepted. He doubted she would rest at merely stripping him and his men of their positions and pay; this amount of delay would likely require blood.

Returning with the Changeling might change things, but unless he was found quickly…

A glimpse of white caught his eye, a startling flash in the gloomy night, had him reaching for the bow in his lap, the quiver of arrows at his side, heart abruptly pounding in his chest.

The figure shifted closer, became clearer despite the heavy underbrush. He eased to kneeling, nocking the arrow to his bowstring.

A deer that large, if it were flesh and blood, would go a long way to filling his men’s empty stomachs.

    

He woke, as dawn started to edge the sky, to the sounds of a nightmare, found himself clenched so tightly against the mage’s chest it was difficult to draw breath. Brilliant purple magic swirled through the room in wild, disordered chaos.

“Roarke—” it was meant to wake the mage, but came out a breathy gasp, hardly audible. Nick struggled a moment, forcing his lover to loosen his grip, and tried a second time. “Roarke! Wake oop, _naow!_ ”

Black eyes sprang open, his gaze well beyond Nick’s face. He spoke, but in Gàidhlig, the dialect so thick and littered with the Old Language it was nigh impossible to understand. His face was grey in the dark, strain deepening every line, and went paler still as his eyes focused.

“Roarke—wot’s the matter?”

“Ah—Ah’ve tae go—” Dazed and struggling to think, the mage rolled away, nearly tumbled from the bed. And then came within inches of collapsing as agony shot through his left leg.

“Roarke!” Nick managed the struggle from bed with little more grace, flinging himself to the ground beside the mage, searching for injury, for illness.

“’s Damh,” the man said, biting back pain and panic with an iron will. “‘e’s been ‘urt.” He stood, dragged Nick up with him, and started dressing with manic efficiency. “’s miles oot, Ah’ve tae go, a’fore worse ‘appens.”

“I’ll come.”

“’t’s dangerous,” the mage growled forbiddingly, rummaging through the chest at the end of the bed for the sword that lay hidden beneath spells and cloth. “Yer no’ comin’.”

“Oh, aye. And I’ve never been anywhere dangerous b’fore,” Nick replied, yanking on pants and reaching for his belt and brace of daggers. “Roarke, y’dolt, I’m the one wit’ the _horse_.”

Roarke looked like he was considering arguing, and then closed his mouth, waiting the last seconds for Nick to shove his feet into boots and snatch up the long pale bow and his quiver of arrows. They hurried from the room in time with one another, fleet as harts down the long stone hallways.

“Don’ bother wit’ the saddle, jist the bridle.”

“Suit yerself,” Nick replied, grabbing the harness of leather and metal as Tala whickered, curious as to the earliness of his master’s coming. The horse quickly picked up on the tension, began to tremble with anticipation of battle, standing quiet for Nick as he buckled and fastened. He snorted and threw his head, just once, as Nick led him out to where the mage waited, impatient and anxious.

“Ah’ll toss ye oop,” Roarke said, forestalling Nick’s furtive look for something to mount with—sans stirrups, even he needed aid to mount the Gearran. Within moments, Roarke was swinging up behind him, the mage’s long body pressed to his back.

“Hang on,” he called, and urged the horse to a ground-eating canter the moment he felt arms slide around his waist and tighten. He didn’t dare give the horse his head—the dark, and the close-growing trees were too dangerous.

“North,” he heard Roarke murmur, hardly more than a breath in his ear, “an’ west.”

                       

Their flight through the trees was chaotic and nearly deadly at times; trees loomed out of the darkness, limbs reaching for them, and the roots treacherous over the uneven ground. The mage clung grimly to him, trusting Nick to get them both through alive, while his consciousness flew to his familiar.

Pain was shuddering through his body, through the stag’s body too. The creature was mad with it, and panicking. It was sheer force of will that allowed Roarke to see what had caused the pain; an arrow deeply imbedded in the hart’s thigh, the shaft of it already snapped away by Damh’s struggles. Hearing with stag ears, Roarke noted the crash and shout of men, seeing with dark eyes, the flash of a torch was visible.

 _Away_ , he called silently, unaware that Nick startled a moment at the compulsion, _Damh, away!_

Trembling with agony and encroaching exhaustion, the Stag darted away again, directed now to the relative safety of the deeper forest. Roarke returned to himself, part of him still running with Damh, but the majority of his consciouness whispering instructions to his lover as he concentrated on melding himself to Nick’s movements, and the movements of the horse beneath him, breathing past the residual pain and exhaustion.

“Roarke, I see him—there!” the flash of white was startling in the murk, the creature’s weary limping obvious as he came back into view.

The mage was off the horse almost at once, slipping away like mist to go to his familiar. Nick followed suit, dismounting and leading Tala forward the last lengths to where Damh had gone shuddering to his knees. Roarke already kneeled beside him, murmuring comfort in a voice thick with the High North, his hands threading through red-stained white fur.

Without conscious command, magic and light spilled from Nick’s hands, revealing the extent of the damage. Arrows, two of them, ugly and dark, shafts snapped away, were embedded in the stag’s left haunch. Other wounds, scratches inflicted by a wild flight through dark forest, left bloody streaks. The hart was quiet now, resting on his side while heaving breaths came erratically, puffing against Nick’s thigh. Magic flared, brilliant amethyst to eyes that could see, merely power in the darkness to them that couldn’t. Two grunts were as one when Roarke pulled the first to the arrows free, and Nick winced at the strain in the mage’s face, the rapid pants that wracked his body even as they did the stag’s.

It was impressed indelibly upon him, as Roarke poured wave after wave of magic into his familiar, that he hadn’t the vocabulary to accurately describe the mage. There wasn’t a word he knew that encompassed selflessness and bravery, practicality and passion, loyalty and honesty, all at once. The emotions that’d been circling warily around their relationship broke their bonds now, flooded him, too many and varied to count, much less name. His light wavered again, and grew brighter still.

Later, he thought, aching as the second arrow came free, the deer going preternaturally still under the pain and only the slightest of groans from the mage, when Roarke and his familiar were home, safe and comfortable. Later.


	24. Chapter 24

They’d lost the stag, and almost half a dozen arrows shooting at him. The captain returned, spurring his twitching mount to move faster through the trees, working his way back to the makeshift camp. The men that had accompanied him trailed behind, discomforted by their surroundings and disenheartened by the loss.

The camp, however, was in chaos. The fire was half-doused, dirt kicked over it until it was feeble flickers of light drowning in the dark. His men either hurried around, tacking horses and gathering their weapons, or gathered in a knot beside the dying flames.

“Captain!” his next-in-command, Jondal Greypeak hurried over. “Capt’n, the imp—’s gone mad, or sommat!”

“Mad?” there was little perk of interest to his voice; it was just what he needed, for the small beastie to cause trouble now.

“’s tearin’ the cage apart—” Usually unexcitable, Jondal’s gloom-shrouded face was lively with fear and anger and something akin to awe. “I think—I think it’s got a scent, sir.”

A scent—or whatever it was that the sorcerer-for-hire had said it was, some sort of energy trail—could mean all the difference. To hell with the stag; if Secondson was in the area, he could be captured.

“Get the men on horse-back, and loose the thing then.” Determination, and more hope than he’d had in a fortnight rekindled their twin blazes in his chest, lending him a renewed strength. “He’ll not escape us a second time.”

 

Seven miles of night-black not-entirely-unsentient forest lay between them and home. A mile would have been difficult for the Stag, seven was impossible. To say nothing of Roarke, who had expended more power than either of them liked, and would expend still more before the night was through.

“A travois, perhaps?” he wondered aloud, looking from the stag to Tala. Damh was large, easily sixty stone. Tala only weighed as much again, and there was no conceivable way to get the stag atop the Gerraen, not without harming them both.

           

It ignored the crashing of horses through underbrush, the shouts of men and worried noises of the horses. Flares of energy as lesser demons and other creatures moved away from the disturbance barely registered. It had a single purpose for existence—to follow the trail; this scent, this energy. The being it sought was using that energy, pouring magic out, making following easy, easy. It shuddered in pleasure—every step closer was more, more, more. It wanted to grab hold, bind and bite and cling to until there was no more and all the power was within.

Bounding forward in its strange six-legged leap-run, it all but purred with the nearness.

 

The travois was built, two young trees and their bark sacrificed to make the framework and ropes needed to construct the thing and enable Tala to drag it. The horse stood patiently, accepting the odd burden and strange harness his master asked of him.

 _Bless magic_ , Nick decided, smearing dirt across his forehead as he swiped at sweat droplets, using it and the technique Roarke had hastily imparted to weave the multitude of plant matter around them into rope and a sturdy cloth-like fabric. Still more lit the area, that they could work; floating balls of heatless light hovered. They’d never have managed so much so quickly without it.

“’M done this side,” he informed the mage, lashing off the last knot binding the thick plant-cloth between the two sturdy poles. Roarke nodded stiffly, finishing his set of knots as well.

"Le’s git ‘im on’t,” the mage replied, striding with a near-inperceptable limp to the downed stag, almost guttural with strain.

 Silent, watching every halting movement, he followed. _Later_.


	25. Chapter 25

The rapid scamper of paws rustling in the dark of the forest drew Nick’s attention for a moment, a sharp, scything glave into the shadows, and then lost it again, in favor of guiding Tala around terrain too rough for the travois to transverse. The horse wasn’t fond of his current task; he had snorted and shivered at the feel of the makeshift harness.

“Easy, lad, easy. Shh,” he soothed the horse, settling him before the Gearran could think to spook. “Another bit, Tala, then we’re ‘ome.”

The horse’s ears pricked at ‘home’—a verbal command they’d been working to prefect, asking the horse to return to the barn, and wait patiently by his stall, if the door was not already open—and his step extended and quickened. Five miles now, perhaps a bit less.

 

Even as he fell back under unexpected, clinging weight, he shouted “ _Home!_ ”, his blade slipping free of it’s scabbard to slash at the creature that had sunk fangs and claws deep into his flesh. The horse jumped away from him, head flinging up as he surged forward, frightened and following Nick’s directive more from instinct than training.

Roarke, simultaneously, lept forward, catching Nick’s staggering form, cursing as the animal—an imp, the mage can see, and what the hell is it doing here, doing this?—clung only tighter, the blade scraping over a hide like strengthened iron.

More crashing came from the woods, as Tala, still with his precious burden, fled toward home, and as still other horses emerged, these with riders bearing torches and weapons, and _there_ went all of his alarms, just now, as they finally ventured deep enough, blasting through his head like a dragon’s roar at close distance. Shaking the discomfort away, his hand settled on the hilt of his sword, drawing it carefully.

Can’t use too much—too much magic, and he’ll be no good to anyone. He cradled Nick’s writhing form against his body, drawing his sword, sharp eyes flicking between the men on horses. Some had bows, arrows already nocked and ready, others, an assortment of sharp or blunt metal weapons.

Panting, cursing, relying on Roarke to keep him standing, Nick dropped the knife and worked to fling the beast from him. It’s teeth had sunk deep into the junction of neck and shoulder, piercing flesh and muscle, meanwhile long, tearing claws had either sunk deep into to hold, or scrabbled madly to find purchase, ripping at his body, through his clothes, rending long bloody gashes in his skin. The pain of it was stunning, for its unexpectedness, for its brutaility. He couldn’t even see past the bloody thing—its tail was long and whipping around his face, but he could hear the approach of others, the crunch of underbrush under hooves, the hiss of Roarke’s indrawn breath.

“Nick,” Roarke’s voice was thick and low with urgency.

Head jerking in recognition, he struggled to straighten, to push the creature away from his face, that he could see at least, if not free himself entirely. The mage slid his dagger’s hilt into Nick’s hand, curled his fingers around the leather-bound metal. “Stay close,” he hissed, settling himself into preparedness.

“Yes,” the younger man agreed, putting from his mind as much as was possible the clinging creature that would disturb his balance and concentration, cause him unneeded pain and weaken him dangerously, as he went back-to-back with his lover.

 

 

It couldn’t end this way, he thought, struggling against the hard hands that were restraining him. Not with blades pressed to Roarke’s throat, the mage defeated by numbers and chance and the sheer bad luck of being caught in the tangle that was his mother’s desires; not with ropes already winding around his wrists like snakes that bit and burned. Not with this fucking _thing_ stealing his powers, his energy, his ability to defend. There had to be— _something_ —

“Wait!”

The world froze for a moment, men pausing in the dark, the gleam of steel soft and very cold in the gloom. A grunt from the mage could mean he was already hurt, already bleeding, or only that the soldiers had been rough, shoving him down to his knees. Either way, it had ice shards slicing through him.

“Leave ‘im be, an’ I’ll come with you,” a hand tightened in his hair, and the imp scrabbled to get a better grip on him, making his vision go fuzzy and strangely bright for a moment, “ _—quietly—_ ”

He heard a protest from a distance, sharp and angry, but separated from him by pain and godsawful fear, unlike any he’d felt before in his life. It made the words distort and twist, rendering them unintelligible, but unmistakably Roarke’s.

“’f you ‘urt ‘im,” he continued, as grimly steady as he could force his voice, “you’ve mah word, I’ll make’t hell fer you in ana way I can.”

There was a rustle of cloth nearby, and the scrape of metal on metal. “Wot’s’t mean tae you, then, Changeling?” this was a new voice, harsh, but soft, and subtly demanding. It sounded familiar, faintly. A captain, perhaps, Nick thought, it bore the clip of command well enough, and grimaced as the hand in his hair tugged again, farther up-and-back than his neck wanted to support.

“He doesna need tae die in this—‘e’s done nothin’ tae the Empress tae warrant’t, ‘sept harbor a man ‘e didna ken was a fugitive—”

“Who is ‘e?”

“—Nobody—jist a-a—‘e takes in children, an’ teaches ‘em.” His voice strained and broke as his head was jerked back again. They couldn’t be allowed to know who their other captive was; they’d either kill him here and now, or bring him back, before the Dowager. Nick, at the moment, wasn’t sure which fate would be worse.

“’e doesna look a scholar tae me,” there was a growling, taunting note to the captain’s voice, pricking terror through him. “Scholars don’ generally run around th’ woods a’ night with traitors, armed t’ the teeth.”

“One—one o’ the children was lost—” he grunted again, as the men holding him jostled his body, bruising him, causing his hair to be viciously tugged. “Leave ‘im tae find ‘er. She’s—” he groaned, long and low, as an errant boot collided with his side. “She’s na’ chance, other.”

“Touchin’,” the captain drawled, seeing the lie. “An’ if we leave ‘im, knocked cold an’ tied, in the forest ‘ere, you’ll come quiet, will you?”

“Aye.” Gods, it was far from ideal, but if it would spare the mage’s life… “I swear’t, on th’ Goddess.”

There was a long moment of hush. Such an oath was made only with extreme sincerity; who knew what form the Moonmother’s vengeance would take, otherwise?

“Then tha’s wot we’ll do,” the captain decided. “I’ve no wish tae shed anaones blood bu’ yers, Secondson, ye traitor,” and his boot collided heavily with Nick’s solar plexus to prove the point.  Nick gagged, and choked on bile and breathlessness, before the ropes twisted tight, and a hood was pulled over his head.

“If you’ve lied, an’ make trouble,” the captain’s voice said, muffled by rough cloth, “I’ll no’ wait fer the Mother tae deal wit’ you. I’ll come back, an’ kill ‘im mahself.”

Another kick, and blackness flashed green-white and spiraled away to nothingness.    

           

He lay motionless, unresisting as his arms were bound, and cloth was tied over his face, regulating his breathing and holding tight to the vicious flood of rage.  He could strangle Nick, for leaving him no choice but to play unconscious, head throbbing with the blow they’d inflicted, and wait for the men to leave, taking Nick with them, senseless, bound, and with that imp still clinging like the bloody magical limpet it was, a binding vow to Thalia hanging over him. Immediately, as soon as they had finished tying the knots, he set to work, loosening and tugging with magic, tugging and easing them apart. Once they were out of sight, he was free.

Free, but still as helpless to stage any sort of rescue as ever. He could only stand, listening as the sounds of horse’s hooves faded, as the flickers of torches disappeared, and cursing virolently beneath his breath to try and damper back the fear that threatened to hollow him like a reed, hoping against hope that the forest’s natural defenses would waylay them long enough that he could catch them.

And, still cursing as the noises segued back to the reemerging sounds of the forest at night, he turned and loped toward home, mind already flickering over what he needed to do.    


	26. Chapter 26

Tala, it was impressed on Roarke as he took his last steps from the forest, was remarkably well-trained. He stood patiently beside the barn doors, trembling and pawing at the earth, yes, but not fighting the harness that still bound him to his burden, not dancing or yanking Damh around the courtyard after him as he tried to escape the weight and unfamiliar method of bearing it.

“Gud lad, gud, gud lad.” Moving carefully, he took the Gearran’s reins, mindful that the horse had yet to fully trust him, and led him back to the enterance of the castle. Bade him to stand still, while he removed the makeshift wood-and-bark travois, unbound his familiar from his support, murmuring comfort, whispering quiet. Left him there, though it grated harshly, to lead Tala back, to pull the bridle away from his head, and mutter spells beneath his breath, for the magic in the stables to care for Nick’s horse.

The door was pushed ajar as the mage guided his familiar up the stairs. “ _Assayed_ Roarke—” He could hear the tears, the fear in her voice, had to push past them or succumb himself.

“Ah need bandages, ‘ot water, an’ the herbs in mah kit,” he rumbled, standing solid when the stag stumbled against him. “An’ ‘ave one o’ the children firecall Alasdair. Ah dinna ‘ave much time ‘t’all.”

“They are ready for you,” her breath sobbed. “Allaidh saw. He saw everything. Mora is calling _Assayed_ Alasdair now. Kenna—” she caught her voice this time, put steel into it, and helped him steady Damh when he staggered “—she is ready to help, as I am, however we may.”

           

There was nothing more that could be done for Damh by man or mage—time, and only time, would finish the work. Roarke left his familiar to the gentle hands of his apprentices and Ghada. He ate, because they made him and because it bolstered his reserves of energy, refused outright to sleep. Conferred, briefly, with Dorainn when his son swept in, ashen and trembling from the travel, but strong yet, and steady after a moment. Tried to scry out his lover, only to find the water shrouded in depthless grey mist and darkness, the fire merely flickering higher and brighter as magic flooded it. Cursing beneath his breath, ignoring the ever-tightening knot just under his ribs, he returned to his chambers. He needed to—

Their chamber. The bed where they had both been sleeping, a handful of hours ago, the covers still kicked into a tangle.

_Fuck._

An oily black miasma of emotion roiled within him, overpoweringly horrid. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe past the solid mass of it, and stumbled back, coming up hard against the smooth stone beside the door. Panic, the clutch of it at his middrift, had been the prevailing feeling of the night, and it returned with suitable vengeance, tearing through like fire through fine paper. Fury, mixing with guilt and helplessness and anguish unlike anything he’d ever conceived, tightened the clutch to a grip like iron. There weren’t words for it, it wasn’t something that could adequately be described, only felt.

Panting, he took a moment, tried to breathe through—then gave up the endevor, and forcibly shoved the dehibilitating emotion aside, recognizing that it wasn’t going to fade until Nick was returned to him, safe and without harm.

 

 

There was a pulse at his temples, angry and painful. Another, throbbing roughly, at his throat, still more pain at his wrists. His body lurched, rocking to a beat of threes, occasionally jostled by the sharper one-two bounce of a trot. Nausea roiled, heavy and acidic in the back of his throat.

They were moving fast—no notice was taken that he’d regained consciousness. A good thing, maybe—he wasn’t sure he’d manage to retain the consciousness, having regained it. Every hoofbeat against the hard ground was a blade in his skull, sharper for his position, sprawled facedown over the beast’s back, bound to the saddle like a sack of grain. The imp still clung—he could feel its sharp claws and teeth now, as it gouged his back—and the world was a blur of greens and earth tones that dizzied him, telling him they’d removed the hood, or it had blown off. Bile burned his throat, and, exhausted, he let himself drift away, back into the red-laced dark.

 

Knowing rage was one of the most destructive forces a mage could channel didn’t stop Roarke from putting his to use. Instead of spiraling out of control, it made him dogged, and relentless, the fear beneath fueling it with desperation.

He would get to Nick, if it killed him.

It was ten days from Dorainn’s home to his, on a plodding horse. Half that, pushing hard; and another day or so from Staireán Sruth to the Pass. From there, if memory served, it was four days to Cabhadh-làir; three, without the snow, provided the roads had not turned to mud.

By his calculations, aided only marginally by scrying, he was somewhere between a day and a half to two days behind them. _Hours_ , he thought, and cursed, bent low over the neck of his lover’s horse, coarse grey mane whipping against his face. _They_ were mounted on the Empress’s swift, hardy coursers. Tala, for all his heart, his strength and stamina, would win no races against his lighter cousins. Certainly not bearing the mage, who had perhaps two, three stone on Nick to accommodate his greater height, and whose riding was suited more for the bounding leaps and dashes of the Mór Fiadh.

The rain of the second night had hindered him badly—the soldiers’ trail had been distorted, and lost in places, making it nigh impossible to track them directly. Finding them on the road, particularly if they suspected he followed, and took pains to lose him, would be difficult. Nick’s energy print was weak, and had faded rapidly in the magic-soaked interior of the Wood. Free of the ancient trees, it became only a bit clearer.

Slowly, over several days of unrelenting following and the constant burn of failure, it became clear that he wasn’t going to catch them before the Pass. The weather had turned unseasonably foul; cold rain at intermittent intervals that obliterated tracks and refracted the properties of magic like mirrors. It slowed them further, muddying the way, soaking mage and beast alike to the bone, necessitating stops to rest and get warm that tightened knots in his gut like sharpened wires. He couldn’t afford the loss of time; Nick couldn’t, certainly, and knowing that made every minute not following unbearable.

 

He was upright now, roughly. He wasn’t sure it was better, necessarily; not with his hands bound to the saddle behind him and numb, and the imp clinging still, its body wound around his like a poisonous vine, lengthening with every ounce of energy it drained away from him. The only good thing about it was that the creature’s bulk held him erect, or mostly. And besides, with his mind half-hazed with pain and debilitating strengthlessness, it wasn’t as though he was able to identify, exactly, the individual aches, just the general approximations of them.

That didn’t mean he didn’t know that it would get worse. Nick was well aware that it could, and most certainly would. The soldiers sent to retrieve him had been more concerned with speed than making him suffer—the captain even allowed him food and water, during the infrequent stops. Overhead, the sky stayed grey and ominous, but the storms stayed behind them. It pleased the captain inordinately; anyone attempted to follow would be mired in the results of the unrelenting downpour. Nick did not doubt for a moment that that was the only reason he was being treated with any degree of civility.

He knew better than that to expect the same degree of kindness once they reached Cabhadh-làir. His mother probably wouldn’t kill him; nothing so quick and painless for the kind of betrayal she’d consider his disappearance.

The horse beneath him jerked into a rolling canter as the band sped up to escape the first warning drops of rain, jerking Nick from his introspection, promting him to try, as was possible, to sit the rollicking gait, as rough and jerky as it was with his balance so compromised. It sent fresh waves of torment spiraling through his body, the imp startled by the difference, and punishing him with its claws and teeth, his shoulders and arms and back protesting the additional strain. Blood flowed, hot and liquid, then cold, and sticky as it dried on his skin.

Nick closed his eyes, moved with the horse, and willed Roarke to hurry.


	27. Chapter 27

They had gotten him. The Empress was almost amazed—furiously, she had been forced by circumstance to write off the hope of her soldiers returning with Nicodemus, loath as she was to do so. And yet here he was, in her courtyard, ashen-faced and bloodied, but whole nonetheless, and cold-eyed as ever, as they hauled him down from the horse (not his own mongrel of a beast, to her disappointment, but a spare pack horse) without allowing a drop of dignity or grace, a cruel slap at one with skill on horseback.

People, servents and courtiers alike, either gawked, or averted their eyes from the form of him. Banishment was banishment, even if he had been brought back forcibly, on her orders: they would shun him, if he survived long enough to earn her forgiveness. There would be no quarter given, no aid secreted to the cell he would soon call his own. Nicodemus would know precisely what it was to be alone in the world, more than ever before.

She gave a regal nod of pronouncement when the captain’s men were replaced with larger, burlier men wearing unrelieved black, save for the smallest of insignia over the heart; one of the more ancient seals of the royal family. These were the _Diùchuimhn_ ; an enemy in their hands would do no more harm to the state, would beg to reveal any damaging secrets after sufficient suffering.

Nicodemus would be hard-pressed to cause her any more trouble, given over to their mercilessness. Perhaps he could even be brought back to some degree of usefulness. She smiled, faintly, to think of it, and turned back to take her place within the keep.

  

Precisely what the little coven of hedgewitches had done to the imp, Nick wasn’t sure. Transmutation, perhaps, or some Dark demon magic. The mage would know, he was positive, what had enabled them to twist the beast from its not-quite-natural body to a heavy set of chains, the same metallic black-green the imp’s scales-skin.  

The chant, in broken Gàidhlig- and Western-laced accents, eerie with the casters’ clear uncertainty, had sounded immensely disturbing, raising the hairs at his nape. He’d been forced to watch and listen, forced to his knees and pinnoned there, too weak magically to do much more than watch as energy colors muddied and went dark, wrapping around the imp, which had immeditately begun making a noise not unlike a child being murdered.

None of the hedgewitches would touch the chains they’d created, complete with shackles. And a moment later, he knew why, as they were snapped tight around his wrists; they drained him just as surely as the beast they’d once been had.

The obvious question hadn’t been asked; hadn’t needed to be. They’d answered it, goggling and muttering over the size of the imp, his reaction to it. Evidently, a man without excess magic would have been flattened to the ground at the beast’s first leap, then left for the guards to deal with. He had received the dubious honor of providing the imp with its final, glutenous meal. And the strange little ceremony had been arranged forthwith, a hurried affair, as the Keep boasted no other methods of binding a mage, even an untrained one, save what could be cobbled together on the spot.

Effective, though, and he could almost admire the resourcefulness, except that the chains left him powerless, the wounds already afflicted made it difficult to resist, even knowing it was futile. But it was necessary on some level, just as it was necessary to meet the dark, nearly inhuman eyes of the _Diùchuimhn_ leader with cool disdain.

“Strip him.”

The voice was cold and flat, oddly clipped and accentless for a native to the Keep. Nick concentrated on it, instead of the rough hands wielding sharp blades and baring his flesh to the warmthlessmess of the small stone chamber, and to his captors’ torments. There was shame somewhere at the back of his mind, an irrational response—it was what they intended. Nick refused to squirm or struggle now, but stood stoically, watching the leader, even as the man flicked those dead eyes over him, assessing every inch of revealed skin. A hint of smile touched at thin, humorless lips, turning Nick’s insides to ice.

“Let’s get started, shall we?”

 

Frustration made the water gyser a bit as he pulled his magic from it, before the gentle flow of the stream tugged the disruption away. Impotent fury had him glaring up at the sky, still dingy grey but no longer threatening rainfall. Cloudy grey had reflected back at him, several shades deeper than above, and roiling in a way he didn’t much like, but useless to tell him anything of Nick.

The Pass was behind them; just. The ascent had been torturous; the rain still pounding and the light darkly gloomy, the footing impossible and treacherous. The descent had been mud-slick and rocky, thus, painfully slow. The full of it had taken days, three, perilously near four, with bare hours of rest. Tala was exhausted, the mage little less so, and bolstered only by merciless purpose.

An inn lay before them, visible, less than half a mile distant, amid the rough buildings of a thinly populated village. Roarke started toward it, the horse’s reins in hand. He knew enough of horses to see the beginnings of lameness. Tala would be going no further than this, not without sufficient rest and time.

That was not, perhaps, a bad thing, he thought, as another possibility occurred to him, not for the first time. Leaving the Gearran safely here would give Nick no cause for anger, once he was back where he belonged; exposing the horse to what Roarke had half-planned in the back of his mind would probably less than please the younger man.

Contemplating still, he handed the grey over to the reedy lad who dashed from the stables, along with a coin, and likely needless instructions. Finding the lady of the inn (her husband away, she imparted, visiting his brother’s widower this fortnight past) was not a difficult task, and he outlined his needs, the lightest of compulsions to his tone, to ensure her silence on the matter, if she chose not to be involved.

It came as a surprise—a mild one, anyway, because he’d long-since passed the point where true surprise could register as more than dully—that the woman knew who he spoke of, chattered animatedly of Nick’s sojourn there, trapped by early spring snow, the boy in tow. He’d left some wooden things—animals, maybe, he’d missed the word exactly, as she spoke quickly and even more dialectially than he (from the Western Heights, though, and therein lay the difference)—carved in the long hours.

The annedote made him hurt, just as much as the empty bedchamber, the mussed and abandoned bed. Pressure wrapped around his chest like lead, and the ever-present haze of black terror stirred.

“’e’s nae verra well?” there was concern there in her voice, in dark, deep brown eyes, enough to push him through, return him to functioning. A deep breath eased some of the heaviness in his chest.

“Run a’foul o’ the Dowager.”

Her eyes widened. “Yer aff’er taekin’ ‘im? Away frae ‘em?”

“Ah need a place no’ tae far away from Cabhad-lair. Ah dinna ken wot’s ‘appened tae ‘im yet.” But none of it would be good, and a journey of a fortnight could kill him, if Nick were in as bad a condition as the mage dreaded. Particularly if done in haste, fleeing the Empress’s wrath. The inn was defensible, well stocked with food and water, and made mostly of stone. A master mage, with battle training, could hold it indefinitely.

“Ye’ll bring ‘im ‘ere,” she said, a sharp nod emphasizing the decisive note. “Nae a soul will speak o’ ‘t.”

“Thank ye.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter where the Torture tag becomes relevant. The description is limitedly graphic; a later description of the injuries dealt will also be noted.
> 
> For skipping purposes -- Roarke finds Nick, and removes him from the situation with Cinaed's help. He also threatens the Emperor.

Time had lost meaning. There was no cycle of dark and light to mark the passage of days—the guards changed occasionally, but he saw little of the majority of them, and tracking their shifts was beyond him. He knew only that time flowed past, unmarked.

At one time, agony had been a badly stubbed toe, a harmless cut, a scrape earned with a child’s usual heedless energy. Later, agony was a thrashing, deserved or not. It became the knowledge that nothing he did could influence another’s affection toward him, and then faded to merely the physical, in the hours and days after claws like sabers sheared through his flesh, and any last ties of kinship lingering in his hopes were severed.

Magic had been a new agony, one he hadn’t fully expected; not from the comparatively mild twinges of before. One that had destroyed him, ripped even his tightly held dignity away, and had led to, he supposed, renewal.

This was beyond the thought of agony. It brought a new scope to pain, took it to a plane previously undiscovered, unimagined. There was no differentiating each individual hurt—he was aware that his skin was well-covered by the marks of torture. He had felt each cut, each burn, each unnatural stretch of abused muscles extended far past their limits until his bones had threatened to pull free of their sockets and his breath had been reduced to sobs and gasps. He knew, almost intimately, his captors preferences, which tools they gravitated toward, which indignities, the feel of their rough hands on his body.

Because it did not stop at mere physical pain.

Exhaustion, a grey-mauve mist, lingered seductively nearby. He was drained, utterly, any last reserve of strength consumed by the shiny green-black shackles that suspended him from some point high above by the wrists. Sleep was denied him, though, some foul concoction they had forced down his throat, the only substance to pass his lips, save his own blood and bile and what meager water they’d allowed, since he’d arrived. He had long-since ushered the tiny flame of his magic into its inner chamber, shut it tightly in in an attempt to preserve it. Strange, that something so troublesome had become so very necessary. They’d not take it from him, he was determined.

He couldn’t feel his arms any longer except for the greasy black pain from the shoulder that had dislocated —a blessing, he decided, and wished that the numbness would spread to the rest of his body. Too, the cell was crushingly, stiflingly dark, even without the cloth they sometimes tied over his eyes. So dark that when they struck a torch to flame, it occasionally blinded, and made his eyes strain and burn with trying to see.

And cold. Hellishly cold, particularly without even scrapes of cloth to offer the illusion of protection, but not so cold his nerves were numbed by it, no, just enough to sensitize his skin unbearably, make every blow and wound that many times worse.

Rats and other vermin scrabbled in the corners, the staccato click of tiny claws on stone loud in the darkness, terrible to listen to. They grew bold in the stretches of hours between the door cracking open, signaling some new torment the _Diùchuimhn_ had dreamed up. Bold rats had little fear, and movement drew them just as surely as the cloying scent of blood. Fortunately, he’d had enough power in the beginning to drive them away, a small jolt that singed dirty grey fur and impressed _fear_ on tiny minds. Now, the occasional kick could send away the more inquisitive—they were hardly so starving as to fight when food was found more easily elsewhere.

Sometimes, though, he could escape. When it eased down to throbbing pain, he could pull away, hide in the depths of his own mind. He could see himself elsewhere, in a castle beside a glassy lake, hidden in the deep parts of an ancient forest. The mage was there, and the children, and Ghada. Tala, and Damh. Occasionally, even Alasdair, his wife and their babes. But most often, it was Roarke there with him, and he could remember the feel of a warm touch where pain’s evidence now lay, could imagine the heated wet of his lips and mouth, the rasp of callused fingers coasting over his skin.

When escape was impossible, and the pain was fresh and searing, shocking his oversensitized nerves, or some new method to trick and confuse was employed to devastating effect, he endured. There were ways of letting it roll over and around it, breathing with it, despite efforts to disrupt and panic him, and the deafening pounding of his own heart, thundering like a hammer swung too fast and hard against his ribs.

Endurance taxed him, drained non-existant reserves of strength. But there was nothing, really, that they could do to truly shame him, for the simultaneously complex and simple reason that they meant nothing to him. Perhaps if fonder memories of the Keep had lingered, or attachments to the people here been more than vague, strengthless desires, he would be vulnerable in some more intrinsic way than body and mind, but they weren’t. And so, the _Diùchuimhn_ found themselves capable only of harming the flesh of him, grating raw his nerves, and leaving him in the deep-dark of the dungeons. It was enough, anyway, to break him in ways he’d never dreamed of being broken.  

He could survive it. He hoped he could survive it. He had survived everything thing else.

Besides, he thought, allowing himself to go limp, despite the fire that roared through his chest and back and shoulders, Roarke would arrive shortly. He needed only to endure until then.

 

It took two hours, no more, for the integral portion of his plan to arrive, easing to the ground with the skill born of centuries practice, the impact barely noticible against the soft ground, and fixing him with great golden eyes. The dragon was large; easily three of Tala, lined up nose to tail, for the length of his body alone; the long serpentine neck and tail were longer still. He stood higher than a tall man at the shoulder, and his wings were like the sails of some great sea-voyaging ship.

“Sorcha sends her regards, and says that you’re to bring your mate next time you visit. I take it he is who we’re to extricate from your charming Empress?” the sound was a deep, smooth rumble, almost odd, coming from a mouth with so many teeth.

“Aye.”

“Then climb aboard, my friend, and let us retrieve him.”  

 

Servants shuddered as a chill breeze flowed past them, and attempted to ward away evil with symbols sketched in the air. Soldiers put hands to weapons, or scanned the halls with sharp eyes. No one heard the faint click of bootheels on stone, in a long-strided tempo that wasn’t quite a run, or the snap of a cloak’s hems flapping with the force of the spector’s passage. If they noticed, they pretended very well that they had been struck deaf and dumb.

The mage didn’t bother going in search of the keys, nor any sort of indication of which cell might contain his lover. The energy trail was clear enough here in the shadowy dank hallways deep below the Keep; silvery grey stained dark and iridescent with demon magic.

The door was perhaps an unworthy opponent; it groaned miserably and splintered away from the lock and hinges, crashing to the floor with a clatter. The flickering light from the nearest torch barely penetrated the blackness within, and he let the glamour fall away, stepping in, terrified at what he might find but prepared.

Light erupted from his palm, and almost immediately wavered. For a terrible minute, his head swam, or perhaps it was his eyes, making him stagger before he could steady himself, and rush to the figure within the cell. No amount of anger, or control could have prepared him for this—no knowledge, nor even his fears could have guessed the _extent_ of the damage done—and something within him broke, shattered like frailest glass. How could it be Nick, hanging so pale and motionless? So limp, every line lax with senselessness, bare to the cold of the awful little room, not even shivering his body had grown so weak.

Blood was black in the brilliant light, dark stains and rivulets that gleamed with red highlights, or had dried to dull matte charcoal. Weals, vicious ones, the marks of braided leather, or chain, and cruel little slices interlaced across his chest and all the way to his knees in a macabre pattern. Bruises, big and small, and the faint gleam of shiny burns marked where the rest left off, accenting and clustered where nerves strained the most sensitive, some terrible, twisted diagram of every erogenous point the man possessed. There seemed not an inch of him unmolested. And beneath the injuries, bones stood stark against skin, his ribs prominent, where they had been only barely noticeable mere days ago; his hips sharper than ever.

Rage, so sharp and pure the mage hardly recognized it, and a terror so complete he might have strangled on it lay beneath the shock, melting it too, too slowly. His fingers trembled, reaching out, to lay feather-light in search of a pulse, almost unsure what he would rather find. So cold, his first thought came, and nearly broke him again, but for the faint stirring of motion beneath the pads of his fingers. Nick quivered, twitched away from the touch. Tears pricked black eyes, and now he moved to pull the rough cloth away from Nick’s face, revealing silver, colorless in the stark light, heartbreakingly tired, fluttering open to fix dazedly on him, a gleam of defiance falling away to confusion, and then relief.

“Oh, lad,” it seemed all Roarke could manage, choking on something made of love and horror and hatred, all of it more than he could stand. In defense, he turned his attention to the manacles, black-green and reeking of demon and twisted black and grey magics. They’d bitten so deeply, held so tightly, they’d drawn blood, to dribble down Nick’s arms. He could only pray they hadn’t severed tendons or destroyed nerves. Stepping closer, he moved to touch, seeking the seams or locking mechanism.

“Ab—‘bsorbs…m’gic. Roarke.” The tiny thread of sound reached him even before Nick managed to twitch, minutely, back from him, the words so thick and raspy that rough tears pricked again. “Y’cannae.”

He looked, swore roundly when only the palest flicker of magic appeared, pearly and thin around Nick, and the gleaming silver of it so bright in the chains that held him they nearly blinded.  Cursing to the depths of hell whatever fool of a magic-user had dabbled in so deadly a mix, he forced more energy than even a hunting imp could consume into the mechanism in a single sharp burst.

Nick made a startled sound as he fell, and it turned to almost a scream, muted, as the mage’s arms banded around him, putting pressure to injuries before Roarke could lower them both to the dirty flagstones. Helpless, he could only allow the mage to take his weight, for his legs refused to hold him any longer, could only sprawl bonelessly over Roarke’s lap, half-cradled against his chest.

“Go tae sleep, luv,” Roarke murmured, sweeping his cloak off, and around the younger man, wrapping him in the unseasonably heavy wool. Magic fatigue could cause some of this, he thought; some of this damage was his own body sabotaging itself. Energy, any energy, if the necessary sleep couldn’t be had. He’d wager his life that they’d given Nick no food, no water. Nothing that would help him keep his strength. He could only wonder how the man had survived, much less remained conscious.

Nick shivered once, the brush of wool promising warmth, even as it scraped against rawness. “Cannae…” He mumbled, a broken doll in Roarke’s arms. “Made m’ drink somethin’…” his eyes fluttered again, and clenched, as he tried to shift. It was quickly growing intolerable, laying on his back, like biting, stinging insects against every wound. His chest was no better, but it was becoming unbearable, this way.

But there were larger worries. He could hear the clatter of boots pounding stone, the rattle of weapons. The mage’s presence had finally been noted.    

“Roarke—” Fear was like rats, he’d learned. They could be kicked away, but eventually, they’d swarm. Shaking with it hurt, desperately, but he was well past any ability to defend himself against fear now. “ _Roarke_ —”

“’S alright, Nick, Ah ‘ear ‘em. Ah’m goin’ tae lift ye naow, a’right?”

“Aye.” His breathing seized as strong arms slid under and around him, and lifted, hitching him high against Roarke’s body. It wasn’t possible that it could hurt so much.

“Breathe, Nick, y’must. Come on luv, breathe.” He turned, faced the doorway where the Empress’s minions would soon appear, and settled soothing power over the precious bundle in his arms, stimulating the release of endorphins. A small help, but it was all he could spare, at the moment.

Men skidded to a stop outside the defeated door, their faces in shadow, until they rushed forward, into the light that Roarke had freed from his palm, to float eerily beside his shoulder, still shedding its pale purple-white light.

At last, grim rage had a place. Strong and deep as the fire beneath the earth, it had his magic flowing without conscious command, slamming the men against the nearest of the walls.

“Sae,” the mage growled, the murmur of sound as audible and sharp as the crack of a whip. “Which o’ ye gen’lemen ‘ad a ‘and in doin’ this?”

It wasn’t the Fuil bi aig Beathan he’d laid over Nick when they had become lovers, which would have merely marked his tormentors. No, as similar as the spell was, it was hardly so benign. A flicker of magic triggered the differences, had four of the seven men gasp, or curse, dropping weapons to grab at the searing pain of the marks burning into their wrists. They quickly forgot the small pain, though, beginning to writhe, still pinned to the wall, whimpers and moans growing loud in the confines of the cell, while their companions stared and struggled against the magic binding them, terrified.

“Memorative magic,” he intoned coldly, for the benefit of anyone still paying attention. The snarl of his voice cut across the pathetic noises from the wall, and heads whipped towards him. “’t recorded evera pain ye gave ‘im. Ye’ll live wit’ it, as ‘e did, an’ evera time ye try tae do this tae anaone else. Ye’ll feel’t, same as ‘em.

“Same goes, if ye try tae order another tae do’t fer ye,” he added, cold black eyes glancing without pity toward the long, almost guant man with the glassy eyes that was the commander, judging by the finery of his clothes, and the set of keys that jangled so loudly in his attempts to escape the pain, not yet even half of what he’d inflicted upon Nick. “Ye’d better ‘ope, fer yer sakes, ‘e ‘eals quickly.”

He walked away, moving gingerly to try and spare his lover any roughness of his gait, ignoring panicked and pained cries behind him. The magic holding them trapped against the wall would wear off in less than an hour, and he hadn’t the time to deal with them now, nor the generosity.

Long strides made the trip through the bowels of the Keep swift, unmolested through a mix of magic and the warning provided by the danger in his face, in the very way he moved, until he found himself faced with confrontation in the courtyard.

Soldiers stood, and servants with hastily snatched up tools, between him and the gates, the Emperor himself leading the way.

“Stand daown an’ let me pass.”

“Return the traitor, an’ you are free to leave,” the Emperor replied, coldly cordial, without even flicking a glance towards his half-brother.

“Ye’ve ‘ad plenty o’ ‘im. Ye’ll no’ ‘ave more.” He looked at the men holding weapons, saw nerves and wavering determination, then back at their ruler, and saw little that impressed him. “Oot o’ mah way.”

Doors slammed open, the wide gates groaning as they were forced agains their locks, smashing the heavy lengths of wood that barred them. Weapons grew too hot to hold, or bent themselves to knots. Some were allowed to scatter, convinced that they wanted no quarrel with a mage. Those that stayed found their armor or clothing abruptly too heavy to move, or so stiff they were held paralysed.

“Ye may tell yer mother tae expect me, boy,” Roarke informed the lord of the land, standing trapped in place, every limb bound in invisible restraints, fury and perhaps fear making deep brown eyes flicker and roll. “Ah’ll no’ keep ‘er waitin’ long.”

 

“Such a pleasure, Roarke, watching you work,” Cinaed commented wryly, though any humor drained from his eyes when they scanned over Nick’s form, wrapped like a child, his dark head laying motionless against the mage’s shoulder. “Will he survive the flight?”

The mage’s eyes hadn’t lost their fierceness yet. But the lines in his face were abruptly deeper. “Ah dinna know. We ‘ave tae try, tho’.”

And drifting on the pain, not yet able to sleep, but lacking the strength to speak, and assure the mage, Nick thought, _I will_.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Description of injuries derived from torture. Main take away -- Nick's body is pretty messed up, and Roarke wants to kill someone, but will restrain himself.

 

The flight was fast, turning a trip of nearly a sennight through snow, and two days in fine weather into mildly over an hour. Still it was too long, and Roarke spent the whole of the time with a hand cupping Nick’s neck, reassured only by the weak but steady pulse there. After what seemed a lifeage, Cinaed was descending, landing with the same smooth transition of before, his pale scales gleaming golden in the light of the low-hanging western sun.

“See to your mate,” the dragon had rumbled, as the two magic-users slid from his back. “When he’s well enough, fire-call, and I’ll return you to your castle.”

Roarke could only thank him, and hurry inside, following the inn’s proprietoress up a winding flight of stairs and down a long, twisting hallway. Heated water and what healing paraphanalia she possessed awaited them, neatly arranged on a table. Nick groaned slightly, as the mage laid him down on the soft, clean-looking bed, and his eyes opened.

“Le’s see if we cannae let ye sleep, lad,” the mage murmured, more to comfort than anything else.

“M’back—” he managed to pull a hitching breath in, couldn’t find the strength to arch away from the pain. “Plea—” the sound caught, part way between a gasp and a thin moan.

“Ah know, lad.” He hated to shift the man, particularly onto his front, but he helped Nick ease onto his side, fussed with the cloak as he waited for the labored breaths to ease. Then he rose to fetch water and a basin.

“Ye need tae drink this, much as ye can, Nick,” the mage said, returning with a large mug in hand. “We’ve got tae dilute wot they gave ye.” He didn’t wait for Nick to respond, but gently lifted his dark head, and settled himself on the bed before he laid it down again, his thigh as a pillow.

 

The water was cool and sweet and liquid, soothing his raw throat as Roarke helped dribble it into him. Delicious, and far more sorely missed than food—they’d given him only enough to keep him alive, and had occasionally taunted him with it, offering and withdrawing, trying to see if he’d break enough to beg. He hadn’t, quite, but much longer, and perhaps he would have.

Almost, he wished for more, when the earthenware cup went dry, but his stomach was already attempting to rebel, and the water was abruptly far too heavy inside him, the discomfort almost more bothersome than the ferocious clamor his nerves transmitted from every other inch of his body.

And then Roarke was touching him again, fingertips against his face, which was perhaps the only part of him that wasn’t doing more than twinging now and then, and he realized he wanted that far, far more. It was nearly pleasure, and he closed his eyes, the better to concentrate on it. He could feel magic too, vaguely, and recognized the purple-white without looking as it flowed into him. It felt lovely, even though it made it difficult to drift over the pain, grounding him a bit too much.

“Wha…?”

“Ah’m workin’ at stoppin’ ye from processin’ ‘t; whateva they gave ye. Ye’ll feel nauseaous in a minute.”

He was already starting to feel it, the same embarrassing biliousness that he’d felt after they’d forced it into his mouth, made him swallow, and held him immobile until every drop was gone. Now, it was only growing worse, and his head pounded in protest, as Raorke reversed his metabolizing the drug, and the flow of magic increased.

Nick groaned, a piteous sound, ending on a note of torment. He trembled, curling himself as tightly as he could stand, fighting the sour surge of acid and foul-tasting stimulant that tickled sickly in the back of his throat,gulping and swallowing against it. Roarke stroked his hair as he finished his work, offering what comfort he could against vicious nausea and agony. “Le’ ‘t go, luv. There’s a basin ‘ere. ‘s alroight, Ah promise ye.”

A distressed sound murmured from the wounded man, and then his eyes widened and he _lunged_ for the bed’s edge, fighting the cloth out of the way, toward the basin, ignoring the uproar from his body.  Coughing and gagging, Nick expelled the fluid, trembling with weakness, and the indignity of it. Nothing could be more mortifying than casting up his accounts, while his lover held his hair out of the way. And then he was beyond humiliation, as another wave of sickness swept over him.

He was still spasming with heaves that amounted to nothing when he felt the mage go stiff beside him. It took another moment, his form collapsing back against Roarke’s lap, the darkness of sleep finally beginning to wash over him, that he remembered.

“Raorke—” he didn’t know how what the mage was seeing would look; but he could imagine the horror that would be in those black eyes, the rage, the pain, and abruptly fought to remain awake, to turn and say something, do something.

“Nay!” the mage jerked, his hands leaping to hover powerlessly, confronted with nothing but wounds he didn’t dare touch yet. One settled, at last, in the man’s hair again, stroking, the other finding Nick’s trembling fingers and lacing his with them, warm and slightly more sure. “Nay, Nick, rest. ‘T’will be a’roight. Go tae sleep, lad.”

“W—we—w-ill ss-sp-eak?” his tongue wouldn’t cooperate, going limp and dead in his mouth, and his vision, already blurred and out of focus, hazed over. “B’fore—?” Visions of the mage doing something rash flickered through his head.

“When ye wake, boy-o. Ah promise.” Raorke watched as exhaustion folded over his lover, shoving him under, and felt his body go fluid and boneless, heavy without being nearly heavy enough. Then his eyes moved over the ruin of Nick’s back, over the travesty of the rest of him, fighting for a semblance of calm, that he could catalog, and begin working to help him, rather than stew and shake over what he could do nothing, at this time, to change.

Avengement could come later, he promised himself. It would—he’d find a way. But now, Nick needed him to be the healer, not the warrior, nor the lover. That thought, and a deep, shuddering breath helped him clear his mind of darker needs and begin, freeing his hands to help channel the power.

A few bumps on his head, hidden by that tangled mop of black silk—where he’d been knocked cold, or miscellaneously struck. A concusion under that, enough to disorient and sicken, but far from life-threatening. A wave of energy went there, to soothe the nagging ache.

Bruises on his face, almost careless, and a small cut or two, the nastiest of them stretching only a few inchs long at his cheekbone. The Emperess doubtless thought his scars already too gruesome for the court. Black eyes swept over cracked lips, bloodied at one corner, and then down, along his narrow, sharp jawline.

Darker, rougher bruises here, circling his throat, the broad mark of strong hands, and the raw evidence of rope or cloth that had dug too deep. Stranglation, likely repeated over several days, enough to terrorize, perhaps flirt with unconsciousness, and heighten sensations unbearably, but never more—it had spared him permanent damage. Too, the bruising, half-healed punctures and lacerations where the imp had clutched and bitten, thankfully away from the vital veins and arteries, instead sunk deep in the the lean muscle stretching from the base of his neck to his shoulders.

Nick lay still on his side, in a loose defensive curl, paler than any man should be against the dark of the cloak tangled beneath him. The position revealed the broad strokes of agony left across his back, thick bloodied weals that all but flayed the flesh from his body, curling over the tops of his shoulders, criss-crossing and jagged all the way down, past the tender crease where legs and buttocks met. They’d rubbed salt in them—he could see the crust of it, in places. It may have saved him from infection, but gods, the torment.

They’d heal cleanly enough, particularly with the magic and the herb compresses the mage could lay over them, but he’d be sore on cold winter mornings, and he’d not comfortably lay face-up for weeks yet. Same went for the dislocated ball-joint of his right shoulder; it would heal, the strained and ripped muscles and tendons would strengthen and rejoin, but damp would be no gift, and Nick would likely have arthritis long before his time, even with his mage-bones.

And there, perhaps the greatest atrocity he’d yet seen marking Nick’s body; a crude representation of the ruling family’s seal, the same mark put on Cabadh-lair’s livestock, burned deep over his left shoulder-blade, a brand no amount of magic, herbs, or hope would erase. There was nothing Roarke could do, save smear burn-balm over it and bind it; try to dull the pain.

Carefully, Roarke rolled him, thankful for magic fatigue’s deep, numbing sleep. The damage was worse on his front, less hurried and more varied. Weals here as well, but placed to lay across nerve centers, to slash across chest and belly like an artist’s angry brushstroke. More salt in his wounds. Slices, tiny half-inch ones, delievered with a sharp, sharp blade, and longer ones, placed with duller steel, interlaced like a delicately horrific spider’s web, thin and precise, mapping amid those weals, along his tender inner arms, down over abdomen and thighs, flirting closer and closer to the tight, flaccid flesh that tucked close to his body in defense. The blades had paused a mere double-finger’s width away, a pause, rather than a decided halt.

The mage had seen similar things, inflicted most usually on confirmed rapists, far to the South, and it made him shudder, to think of that pain and terror evidenced in Nick. If he’d been later, they would have gleefully cut into him, rendered him less there, or perhaps left him to suffer all the needs of a man without ever being able to gain enough sensation against his flesh to assuage his needs. Or mayhaps they had had some other dark intention. It mattered little the intention; the damage they had managed to inflict was done. The mage’s skin shuddered again, in sympathetic revulsion. There would be more trauma there than merely what he saw; assurance and reassurance many times over would be necessary. For the both of them, likely.

Burns; smaller, lesser ones than the ugly monster on his back; and bruises of varying sizes added to the pattern, shiny and wicked and colorful against too-pale skin. There was some bleeding beneath Nick’s skin; his kidneys and liver had suffered, and there were deep-muscle bruises and rips in the taut, elastic strips that guarded Nick’s belly—magic, warm and soothing, flowed liberally to repair the hurts, as far as they could be.

His right hip. There would be problems there. It had been dislocated then put back, and fractured in the process. And then a blade had slashed too hard, too deep—they’d missed the arteries by a hair, and had even stitched it, roughly, to keep him from struggling, and bleeding out. Muscles that had already strained and ripped were sliced, mangled. Nick would limp, the mage thought, probably for the remainder of his life.

Roarke nearly wept, threading tough bone fibers together to strengthen the insidious hairline crack, attempted to repair the muscle damage with only minimal success. Magic would only do so much. If he tried to force it, Nick’s system and the magic itself would fight him.

They’d caned him, down his legs, pulling blackening bruises to the surface. The bottom of his feet, as well, so thoroughly he’d not be able to walk until the bruising settled, and one of the toes was cracked, high up in his foot.

He’d been left standing, supported only by his wrists…

Visibly, there was—nothing. Nothing but bruises, and cuts from the manacles. Underneath, though—Roarke closed his eyes a minute. The muscles were a mess—stretched to the point of ripping, compressed up against nerves. The joints were swollen and enflamed from the pressure they’d taken. Gods’ mercy, he’d come out of this with the use of his hands.

He went back now, worked to stimulate the healing of the worser wounds, now that the internal damage had been identified and healed, as much as he could make it. Now, he stood, and employed the meager plants available to him, what he’d brought with him and what the inn’s lady had donated, yearned for his own storerooms and gardens, or those of his student’s. Dorainn had marvelous gardens, designed for the healing arts. But these would do, in such a pinch.

Roarke noticed now, as he’d only flicked over before, how very clean Nick was, having strained and suffered in a dingy dungeon for more near to a sennight than the mage could bear to think of. They had washed him. An intimate torture of its own, he didn’t doubt, when Nick still occasionally cringed at the liberties the mage took with his body. And while it had stymied the worst of the infection, he wished them all to hell for it. How dare their hands travel similar pathes to his own, twisting such a personal gesture with their foulness and making it a dark and dirty thing?

With warm water and a soft cloth, he wiped away what had already gathered—the clammy sheen of cold pain-sweat, the dust of travel even dragon-flight couldn’t completely negate, and the grime accumulated from the rescue—and used a cleaning spell to banish the rest of what meager infection might have dared attempt to settle. With thin-woven bandaging, he wrapped what he could, layered protective and cushioning magics over what he couldn’t.

There was little more he could do for Nick now, as the moon rose. Tomorrow, he could do more; tomorrow, when some of Nick’s strength had been salvaged by the sleep. Now, he could only shift the man into what he hoped was a comfortable position. And, with a sigh, slip in beside him, shedding all but braes first, to doze lightly while he waited for dawn to come.

 

Nearly six days Nick had suffered the _Diùchuimhn_ ’s mercies, as near as the mage could tell. Roarke knew every physical blow he’d received, knew precisely the width, breadth, depth and severity of each, could estimate how long it would take for each to heal over to scars, how much longer to regain full strength. Dawn had come, and he’d dived back into his work, helping to mesh bone and tendon and muscle together again, millimeter by painful millimeter. The inn’s propeteress brought food and drink at noon, had gasped, then muttered direly over his lover’s broken body, her hands gentle as they stroked lightly over bruised, raw skin, the mage’s black eyes eagle sharp on every move.

When she’d looked her fill, her gaze came up, sad and sorry and angry. He almost blinked at the anger, remembering that there were some people who’s compassion truly was that instantaneously given. Roarke forgot, occasionally, in times such as these, that there were people like the woman, who needed not _know_ to give sympathy, nor love, to ache.

“I stay, when ye go tae revenge ‘im.”

Slowly, still watching her, he nodded, before looking to Nick again. Once again, empty hours stretched long before he could do more here; the man slept as any fatigued mage, and wouldn’t wake for days yet.

“’T willna take long,” he murmured at last.


	30. Chapter 30

The Empress Dowager turned at the chill of cold wind, biting through even the warmth of the room, shock reading in her cool dark eyes for almost a second before being covered up, to regard the lean, lanky man in her chambers regally.

“Be gone—I have no use for you at this time.”

A copper eyebrow lifted, as imperious as any King’s had ever been. But his eyes were not merely cool, nor even cold. They were icy hellfire, burningly chilled. “Nor Ah fer ye, Dowager. Ye’ll put oop wit’ me, all the same.”

“Who are you?” she demanded, outraged by this interloper’s insolence.

“Ye don’ remember, eh? Tha’s a shame.” He moved, stalking closer, the fluidity of it intrinsically threatening. Abruptly uneasy, the Dowager pulled away, colliding with the finely wrought desk behind her in her haste. “But then, ye were no’ much more than a child yerself, then.   

“Ye dinna remember, Genevieve, who laid wards o’er the crown ye wear? O’er the throne ye loike tae sit on? Over evera child ye carried, but the last?”

Her eyes widened now, swept across his face. “Roarke. But—”

“Nay, not sae dead as ye’d hoped. Ah’m nae here aboout tha’.” His body blocked any escape routes, pinned her without contact in a corner against desk and windows.

“Then what—”

“Ye’d nae business draggin’ Nick back, havin’ ‘im ‘alf-killed. Ye’ll no’ do’t again.” A hard hand wrapped around one of her slim, soft arms, pulled her out of the corner, to push her toward a delicate, carved-wood chair.

“But yer goin’ tae tell me why, first.”

 

Dark eyes slid over the form laying so-still on the bed, took in the damage, and then began to change, the near-black blue leeching away, leaving the pupils all but colorless. Magic flowed, rushing against the walls and into the corners of the small room, making the cheerful curtains at the casements dance madly, so strong that even in fatigue-driven hibernation, the young mageling stirred, murmured. Transformation complete—it never took as long as it seemed it should—a long, deceptively delicate hand reached out, sent a tiny flicker of palest energy into him, soothing the wariness evidenced even in sleep.

The mirror displayed the creature, currently an androgeneous figure, slim and lithe, without the encumbering sexual organs common to humans, shrouded in half-transparent wisps of silky cloth. This was Its preferred form, with a human’s long hairless limbs and no obvious forms of protection from the elements besides what It conjured seperately; a product of human genetic material placed in a then-female, then-mortal shaped Demon’s fertile womb. Too, the stamp of Its eyes, a human shade and shape made magic-bright, and dark, dark hair that resisted all but the most concentrated efforts to alter shade and texture.

And now, It found, It possessed very human feelings for this child, broken and bloodied by those It had left the child in the care of. This was not…right, It supposed the human word was. It had known, to some extent, that humans were intolerant of differentness—Its last offspring had been subjected to unrightness because he was different. It had bound this one to eliminate such rejection. That the binding had not prevented the child’s pain angered It, and sickened it that the binds should become so ingrown as to cause such pain. It had not approved of locking the child’s magic, and to learn that the purpose of doing so had been circumvented was frustrating in the extreme.

It wasn’t, however, willing to fuss in Its child’s life, It thought, cocking Its dark head in a very human way as It watched Nick’s chest rise and fall, listening to the soft patter of the man’s heartbeat. Demons didn’t, with very few exceptions, rear their children for all that long, and though It’s children were all but human, _It_ was Demon in all the ways that mattered.

But Its blood and magic ran in the child’s veins, released by the red master mage. He would heal, and the red mage had already gone to avenge him against the dream woman, the one whose need had called It across time and space, who’s strangeness of thought had brought this to be. It would help, would bolster It’s child’s magic, and ensure that It’s son’s easily broken limbs healed as fully as they could. Demon magic would aid in different ways than the red mage’s.

It shook It’s head when the work had been finished; humans rarely learned to appreciate what they were given; and went to wake the small human whose form It had borrowed. The child still needed watching, and she would fuss without harm.

 

 

“Go on,” the mage growled, looming from five paces away, when the Dowager paused, drawing in deep breaths, looking ashen. She shot him a cold, narrow-eyed glance, but continued.

“The man was exotic; dark hair, light eyes, and I was but a child. I was foolish, and thought it only a dream. But for you, and you were gone before I ever suspected; what experience had I with magic?

“And then he—it—the dream was gone, and the Emperor was dead, and Declan was taking the throne. And I was.” She waved a vague hand, conveying everything she couldn’t seem to say, a woman who’d bourn four babes. But her expression drew closed, and distant.

“None of the others were so difficult. I was in seclusion by the fourth month. There was—I couldn’t—my condition at that time allowed for little but constant bedrest.”

“The labor was difficult, then?” he didn’t want to feel even the slightest sympathy for the woman, and—remembering his lover, laying so still and hurt, the compassion was thin. But it lingered softly, remembering also the solemn girl the Empress had once been, overwhelmed and rather peturbed by her active older husband, who saw her as little more than a convient brood mare for the crown.

She only nodded, refusing to speak of such indignities. The distant look to her faded, and she watched him warily again; the first similarity he’d yet seen between her and her son.

“An’ after?” He knew of Una, the nurse-not-mother; his opinion of the woman was lower even than of the one before him—how did one manage to withhold affection from a child with no one else, when the child had done nothing to deserve it?

“A servant took him. I had nothing more to do with the raising of him,” she stated, royally defensive as only one born to the role could be. “I wanted nothing to do with him, until it became clear he could be of use. Then I offered him the option of being more than a Court plaything.”

Sympathy, a struggling concept, broke, and plummeted to earth in flames, at that thought. “Oh, ye did, did ye? How sae?”

“I have no wish to speak of it,” she replied, stiffly. Anger, deep and unreasonable, had flared in her eyes, flattening them. “He was an unnatural child; he grew to an unnatural man.”

“Ah’ve little wish tae ‘ear ana more from ye, in ana case,” Roarke agreed, ice-hard. He knew now precisely what he was going to do—before coming, he’d had only an inkling. Nick would be safe; they could live in peace. Perhaps the Dowager would find a measure of serenity for herself, given the chance.

“Naow, Genevieve, listen closely,” he wove the compulsion in seamlessly, his voice going warm and calm, “an’ Ah’ll tell ye wot we’re goin’ tae do…”   

 

 

The scent of magic was pervasive through the room, harsh and electric. It sent chills up Roarke’s spine, and clenched every muscle in his belly; Nick wasn’t well enough to have flooded the confines of the walls with that much energy, and it didn’t feel like his, besides, nor like Roarke’s own. It was fading quickly though, the wood and stone of the inn absorbing it. A good sign; an actual casting would have had it lingering. It lingered on Nick, and that was horrifying—the foreign magic had touched him, moved over and through him.

The innkeeper’s wife sat quietly beside the bed, fussing with yarn and needles; she had looked to the door when it opened, given a small smile in welcome that faded at the expression on the mage’s face.

“’As anathin’ happened?” he had eyes only for his lover, laying so still and quiet, only the rise and fall of his chest belying continued life. He hadn’t moved, which was reassuring—whatever had caused the surge of energy hadn’t disturbed him enough to draw a reaction. None of his wounds had worsened, and Roarke could find no evidence of infection having set in; the mage could find nothing amiss. He had—improved. Not dramatically, but there was improvement he hadn’t expected since this morning.

“Nay, ‘e ‘asna moved, an’ naeone’s been in but me,” she replied softly, standing away from the chair to free up the space. “D’ye need anathin’?”

“Nae,” he replied, perching on the bed and lifting Nick’s hand, long fingers seeking and finding his pulse, noting temperature, and the thin sparkle of power already fighting to renew itself in his veins. “Nae, no’ at the moment.”

Perhaps this was the best form of circumstantial proof that they might ever receive.


	31. Chapter 31

Twice the length of time he was held in Cabadh-lair, Nick slept, deep and all but motionless, though the mage saw when dreams flickered lightly over his face. He healed, asleep—Roarke’s magic and his own struggled to repair unnatural damage, the Demon magic fading slowly once it’s utility had peaked, but slowly, muscle and skin knit roughly into the precursors to scar tissue, bruises changed colors at the edges, gaining hints of sickly green to the dark purple-blacks. The small burns looked ugly still; but such was the nature of them. Roarke smeared cooling paste over them and left them be.

So the mage settled to wait, healing and napping by turns, keeping Ghada, the children, and Dorainn appraised of Nick’s wellbeing. The innkeeper had returned, startled but far from dismayed to find two mages sequestered in the best of his rooms; he, like his wife, had been friendly and helpful, and had been horrified by the marks laid over Nick’s body. They provided food, drink, occasionally company. And they had gifted him with one of the little wooden creatures Nick had carved, a fair representation of the big grey currently recovering from too much terrain covered too quickly with an unfamiliar rider in their stables. He hadn’t known of this particular talent, Roarke thought, studying the figure. He folded in into his palm, tight enough that it left a pale impression, or toyed with it, turning it over and over, endlessly.

 

The thirteenth day was half-gone when Nick became aware that he drifted not on a fluid swell of warmth, but on something firmer—soft, yes, but not the dense liquid of sleep. There was a niggling feeling at the back of his mind, one that grew more irritating as he edged closer to awareness. It was almost like taking shape again, having been freed from his mortal body, sliding both up and downwards through the thick mist back to his form. Yes, here was his head, his face; his torso was where he had left it, and there were his limbs, sprawled and heavy, but unmistakably there. They rested on the surface he’d noticed earlier, the soft-yet-firm one. It cradled him, almost.

Pain was the next thing that presented itself for notice, distant still. Nick considered it, rather curiously. It was there, certainly; what he wasn’t entirely sure was…Oh. Yes, he remembered that. The remembering brought other things, more memories, more sensations, seeping slowly back. He remembered the capture, the fear, everything that came before. More faintly, he remembered his soujourn in the depths of the dungeons, but the contents there-in flowed together like messy paints, bleeding and blending in tones of black and red and white-green. There were splashes of brighter-sharp red and purple where Roarke had come, the blurr of their exit from the castle, and something huge and white that he very seriously believed was a dragon. But perhaps he had only dreamed the impression of flying.

He fought to surface now from the clinging tendrils of fatigue. The burn of pain was becoming uncomfortable now, sharp thrills of icy-heat that seemed to pierce the veil of weariness; they tugged at him, and he in turn used them to center himself and focus, as the mage had once taught him, with sensations far pleasanter than pain.

A bed. He was laying on his side; right side; on a mattress. The position spared as many of his injuries as it could, though what took his weight protested it violently, throbbing with every heartbeat. He ignored it for now—the pain would receive its turn for his attention, at the moment, he wanted to know his surroundings.

He was warm. A sheet, thin and light enough that the pressure was only mildly uncomfortable against his over-sensitive skin, covered him to to the waist. The room—he tested opening his eyes, just a slit, and met with soft lighting that cast gentle shadows and revealed walls that weren’t those of Roarke’s castle but were also not Cabadh-lair’s. They were cleanly whitewashed and a generous distance away, indicating the room wasn’t by far a small, cell-like place—was warmed, possibly by fire, or the heat-holding properties of the stones. It was late summer, after all, it was supposed to be warm.

Another body lay beside his, not quite touching, but only a hairs-width distant. _Roarke_. He knew the heat and scent of him, even muddled and aching.

Nick allowed himself to examine the pain now. It was deep-seated and dull throughout his body, aching in time to his pulse. His back sang with sharper notes, and the thin slices where a blade had slid over flesh trilled. The welts ached and burned, echoed by weeping joints and muscles. His shoulders and hips moaned softly, a deep-throated melody that added to the general symphony his abused body relayed. His wrists, rather than a melodic pain, jarred, a mild pain that threw all else into sharper relief. He was pretty sure he couldn’t actually feel his fingers, and his  arms were a strange mix of pain and uselessness,

But it wasn’t the agony of before, that made him drift and seek refuge in remembered pleasures. It was bearable. And Roarke was here. That was good.

Now, surely there was a privy or chamberpot somewhere nearby.

 

The mage’s eyes snapped open at the first sign of movement beside him, the first alteration in breath. Everything in him surged, though when he moved, it was carefully, easing away and gaining his feet, to walk around the bed’s end, that he could see Nick’s face more easily. Silver eyes were open, dazed and vaguely confused still, but open and aware. The sight of it tore at his control, had tears prickling, even as he smiled.

“There ye are, luv. ‘s gud tae ‘ave ye back.”

“Roarke.” The younger shifted, his face tightening though he hardly flinched, and then shifted again.

Worry was an instant flood, pushing relief to the rear. “Wot’s the matter, lad?” he wanted to still the restless movement, alleviate whatever discomfort caused it.

Blood flushed his cheeks, lightly, two points of mild color in an otherwise snow-pale face. “Need tae—th’ privy.”

“There’s a bedpan—nae, alroight,” he soothed, when Nick made a reproachful sound and narrowed his eyes into a look that was more a grimace than a glare, but served its purpose nonetheless. The mage shook his head; Nick was going to find he hadn’t the strength to sit up for any length of time, much less stand, without support. “’Old on a moment, then, le’ me get a chamberpot.”

 

After several miss-starts, and as much fluster as Nick had the strength for, which was little, they managed, and Nick was soon laying still again, concentrating on keeping his breathing steady, carefully dosed from the inn’s supply of cures for the pain.

It had taken an impossible amount of strength to remain sitting upright even for the time it took to relieve himself, and that was with the mage taking the majority of his weight, acting as his hands, arranging him that such a feat were possible at all. Roarke had gone to fetch food, though the thought of food or drink was nearly a fearful thing in Nick’s mind, after the ordeal of moments before, desired and abhorred with similar vehemence. Sleep was far from his grasp, though, completely sated for now, and he was left on the edge of restlessness, helpless to do anything to assuage it. So he breathed, and counted each inhale, the seconds between it and the ineveitable exhale, before starting the process over; even with the mild opiate tincture Roarke had given him, it hurt. Moreover, he felt oddly floaty and too warm, thanks to the morphine. He had decided he wasn’t overly fond of the sensation.

“’ere we are,” the mage murmured, entering again laden with a tray. Nick was ghostly pale, all but blending with the sheets, except where wounds lend him raw, vicious color and the dark, shaggy silk of his hair. He set the tray aside, to perch on the bed by his lover’s head, lending his thigh as a pillow that he could be more comfortable, and began carefully to brush his tangled mane back from his face. Silver eyes inquired his purpose, weary but no longer so heartrendingly exhausted, only the slightest of vagueness to his gaze.

“’ow long?”

“’ow long fer wot, luv?”

“Before I can move as I ought.” He’d closed his eyes under the pleasure of the mage’s fingers running through his hair, gently parting the knots. He felt them still now, go stiff and quiet. “Jist tell me, Roarke,” he murmured, soft and light as thistledown; he wasn’t positive his throat, so raw, would allow for volume.

“A verra long time, lad; months. Years, mayhap. An’ ye’ll never be quite the same as ye were.”

He considered, would have nodded, and instead shifted a hand very slightly, enough only that Roarke noticed, and took it in one of his.

He could mostly feel it. His arms hurt more now, though.

“’t will be alright,” Nick assured, turning his face as much as he dared into the muscled warmth of the mage’s leg in an aborted nuzzle, tightening his fingers in Roarke’s.


	32. Chapter 32

It was three days before Nick had the strength to try sitting up on his own; another three before Roarke stopped hovering anxiously when he did it. Walking remainded out of the question, as his right hip would cheerfully drop from beneath him if he put even the slightest weight on it, and the slightest pressure on his feet had him on his knees, covering his head and begging after the initial scream. He had learned he heartily hated the morphine the mage occasionally gave him, when he was in such discomfort that tears started flowing without his leave; he couldn’t stand the sensation of being unconnected to the world, even when the world was pain. And it made him prickly and over-warm and nauseous.

The wounds were closing, and the bruises melding to sickly yellow-green in places. He still ached all over, but the pain was duller, now, not so sharp and piercing. They had begun to itch, just enough to promise it would be nigh unbearable in the not-so-distant future. Too, Nick was becoming impatient with the enforced bedrest. Even knowing that his hip would not hold his weight did not remove the need to be up, to move around. That his feet wouldn’t, though—that was fear.

“Ye’ll ‘urt yerself,” was Roarke’s brusque comment, but his eyes were tender, and he’d hunted up a walking stick the next day.

“Nae longer than three minutes, ye understand?”

It was more along the lines of two hours of sitting, breathing deeply to overcome the terror of having, well, terror, overtaking him again and render him helpless. Leaning forward, and careful testing got him to his feet, trembling, gulping at air. But he shook his head at Roarke’s offer of assistance, and stood there.

Three minutes of cautious standing followed by even more guarded steps, the mage within lunging distance should he run afoul of mobility as he inched from the bed to the room’s window and back, had never been so glorious.

 

“Are we likely to encounter—opposition?” The inquiry came the evening before Roarke intended to call Cinaed back, baring any sudden developments. Nick, in his way, knew, though the mage hadn’t expressly informed him.

“Ah verra much doubt’t,” he replied, lifting his eyes from the book he’d been idling over. Nick was reclined, half sitting against pillows supported by the bed’s headboard, the walking stick propped within reach. Dark circles rested beneath his eyes—he’d woken the mage earily in the day with thrashing and a thin, animal sound of pain and fury, and calmed only when lifted bodily against Roarke’s chest, cradled and rocked against his warmth, his heartbeat. He’d but dozed since.

A hand rhythmically, unconsciously kneeded the muscles high in his right thigh between long, stretching wounds, working at the tension there, brought on by the dislocation and strain of use. The mage had allowed (though _allowed_ was perhaps not the right word) him seven minutes on his feet today, and Nick had trembled like a leaf after, half fear, half lingering pain. But he had far more strength than Roarke would have originally guessed, barely eleven days after waking, considering he had started standing and walking seven days before.

Silver eyes, formerly fixed on the divets and marks on the stone wall opposite him, warmed by candlelight, shifted to him. “You’ve dealt with’t.” A statement underscored by suspicion.

Roarke nodded, returned his attention to the book. The words were boring, the subject dull (a particularly uninspiring and didactic sermon on the Goddess that the mage couldn’t believe had more than a teaspoons’ worth of truth to it) and the author long-winded, but suitable enough for a distraction. His eyes skated over a line of spidery, hand-scrawled text without absorbing even the slightest inkling of what might have been said.

“Roarke. How?”

“In mah own way.”

“Roarke.” There was a strange note now, that was strain and irritation and fear, tinged with desperation. It was that that had him relenting.

“She doesna remember ye as once she did. She doesna remember…several things, as once she did. She’ll nae bother us again, nor ‘arm others.”

“An’ Declan?” there was another worry; never so bad as his mother, the Emperor still had not hesitated to use him if he required a tool with Nicodemus’s skills. Declan would not take kindly to having lost one of his enforcers, particularly not one who was the royal family alone to command.

“No’ if ‘e wants the opportunity tae produce ‘eirs,” the mage replied, at ease. Genevieve wasn’t the only one he’d taken the time to have a heart-to-heart with. The current Emperor had understood him quite well, and would remain out of Roarke’s way, or he’d know why.

 

Flying was exhilarating. Watching the land—mountains, forests, rivers, the thin silver lines of streams—extend out for forever, beneath a steel-grey sky, several shades darker than the smooth scales he straddled. It was cold, so very high up, and the wind bit with ice-shard fangs through the heavy wool cloak the mage had wrapped them both in; but it meant little in the face of the speed and height and the feel of the dragon’s muscles working beneath him. It was not unlike a horse’s back, but for the scales, and the creature’s intelligence and the ability to breathe flame at will.

Nick was tired; he had insisted on standing to greet Cinaed, clutching the walking stick firmly, before it was returned to the innkeeper with much gratitude, and he was required once again to rely completely on the mage. He didn’t regret refusing to be carried, though, like a weak-kneed young bride; he had his dignity left to him, at least. Still, he hurt, in that dully persistant way that would not fade, and would sharpen and intensify with stress. There were nasty little zings of pain shooting up along his spine from every place his body touched something else, be it the mage, the dragon, or merely the force of the wind chafing cloth against him, when his skin was almost unbearably sensitive.

But it was better by far than riding would have been in this condition, and this way, it would take hours, not weeks. Tala was with Alasdair, recovering from the sprain he’d sustained, in the comfort of the younger mage’s pasture and stables, in company with his horses. It was a good thing; he’d not fret over the Gearran’s comfort half so much knowing human (or mage, whatever the difference might be) hands had taken up the care of the grey.

For now, there was nothing to do but lean back into his lover, and allow worry to be ripped away by the roaring winds, as the dragon sliced through the air, a silver-white blade through purpling iron-grey, sweeping them toward home.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the last.

Roarke felt as Nick woke, the instinctive startle and jerk that hadn’t existed two months ago. And then the wriggling to ease pressure against wounds that weren’t yet entirely healed, before he settled again, tucked carefully against the mage’s body, a soft sigh escaping to gust across his chest. The mage lifted a hand, leaving his eyes closed, and stroked fingers through black satin strands. Savoring the feel of Nick, pressed close, the clean scent of his hair, the warm weight of his head on Roarke’s shoulder.

“I won’t break,” the man murmured, several minutes later, when his breath had calmed, and he’d shifted closer still, turning just enough to press  lips to skin. It sent a frission of heat fluttering through him, deepening with a need that had been growing daily as concern was put tentatively to the side. He could feel Nick, half-hard and growing very warm against his leg.

“Nay, per’aps not,” he replied slowly, but he didn’t move, nor open his eyes. There was a hitch to his breath though, audible, when a long, slim hand slipped beneath the light blanket, to skate over the flesh that lay hidden under it.

“’m tired of waitin’,” Nick said, soft and persuasive, his breath whispering warm and sweet in the dark, bringing up gooseflesh in its path. “I can move enough tae walk aboout, I can get up an’ daown the stairs. I can sit, an’ kneel, an’ get up again. Let me try.”

Black eyes opened, slid over him assessingly, noted each bruise that lingered palely under skin, each raw-pink scar, seemed to scan each ache and twinge. “Yer hip’s botherin’ ye. An’ Ah’m tired, lad.”

“M’cock’s botherin’ me more,” the younger replied, a hint of bite to his tone and a glare starting to emerge in shaded pewter eyes. “An’ yers isn’t too calm, either, from the size o’ it.” He palmed the mage, took him from half-hard to fully arosed with a few easy flicks of his wrist. “Don’t lie tae me, Roarke. Especially not fer my own good.”

“Aah—shit,” Roarke grumbled, sucking in a breath to replace what had whooshed away at the blessed pressure and friction. “Alroight. ‘urt yerself, an’ Ah’ll confine ye tae bed fer a bluidy sennight, tho’.”

Nick chuckled, levering himself up to loom over the mage, dividing his weight as evenly as he could over hands and knees. “Yer stayin’ with me, then.”

“Di’ ye intend tae do somethin’, or talk? Ye‘ve gotten me where ye want me.” He shifted, lifting himself to aid Nick in stripping away their scant clothing so that it landed uncared for or hung haphazardly on their limbs. Ten minutes, he gauged, before the man was trembling too hard to continue kneeling; he’d exerted himself today, walking perhaps too much, and pushing too hard at getting stronger than the mage believed entirely wise. No matter now, Roarke thought, as Nick settled astride his thighs, cautious at the amount of weight he applied to his weak hip. Nick knew his own limits, nearly as well as he did.

The mage cupped a hand around the offending jut of bone, brushing his thumb lightly over the ugly ridged scar that stretched there, letting the warmth of his hand soak in, soothing the irritation there, and sat carefully up, bringing Nick tumbling forward into his lap with his shifting, the better to claim his lover’s lips. Tounges fought, with lips moving and sliding, shiny with moisture, until they were both gasping, and the younger’s hands sped over the mage’s body, mapping out angles and planes like a blinded man relearning something precious.

“Touch me,” he commanded roughly, lips buried at Roarke’s throat. His body moved and arched, to emphasize the demand. Another time, the mage would have chuckled; at the moment, he could only obey, skimming his palm along the lines of the lithe form perched over him, feeling on the pads of his fingers the rougher shapes of scars over the silky skin. Small shivers followed every scrap of contact, and again, Nick shifted, moving into his hands to increase the pressure. His manhood, already beyond half-hard, rose stiff to attention, and he rocked forward to press it against Roarke’s in another plea for contact.

“Easy, luv,” he’d seen the flicker of pain that the movement had created, flashing across the younger man’s face.

“Dinna stop—” Ignoring the muffled protest of his body, Nick twitched forward again, leaning into the mage’s chest, his head drooping to rest against a broad shoulder, dropping his hands to where they rubbed so tauntingly together, to give them both friction and fire. His fingers were strong and desperate, needing the feel, the heat and speed, while he yet had the strength to hold himself here. He didn’t want the mage to go gentle and slow yet, to lower him to their sheets and offer tenderness—later, perhaps, when they’d both taken their fill. Not now. Not when he was being spurred on by the heady mix of love-lust-devotion and the need to erase the memories of pain with those of blinding pleasure. “Please. Please.”

The mage gave a groan, low and rough in his throat, and buried his face in Nick’s riotous black mane, one of his hands joining his lover’s, stroking, caressing, gripping and pumping, the other arm banding around his body, to pull him close and to steady him. They were close, the both of them; he could hear the younger’s mumbling, long needy strings of curses and pleas half-whispered in breathless undertone, could feel warm, sticky fluid flowing over their entwined fingers.

Shivers had begun to rack his still-thin frame, turning swiftly to shudders. Need was coalescing with weakness, desire eating away at strength like living flame. Nick’s belly was tight and trembling with tension; a minute now, no more. Thought was impossible, and consisted of little more than _Roarke—Now-Roarke—_

 Purple fire flared, surging against his own like a desperately affectionate cat. He could only gape for a helpless moment, stunned at the volatile punch of sensation, not just to his body but to his mind, before everything turned to color and light, detonating in multiple explosions in his belly, groin, chest, head.

 

He blinked his eyes open to find himself trembling like a leaf in a gale, his chest a heaving bellows, sprawled across the mage’s chest. Roarke had reclined, sinking back into the pillows and pulling him with, after orgasm had left him insensate.

“Ye’ve killed me, I think,” he managed, when his breath was nearly his own again. His heart throbbed fit to burst, aching as it pounded and struggled to slow. He couldn’t move yet, the shivers still wracking every muscle, leaving him simultaneously electrified and exhausted. Nothing hurt—though how he would distinguish pain amid the jumble of frenzied signals he was still receiving, he wasn’t entirely sure.

Silver magic curled appreciatively, filling every inch of him inside and bleeding out to wrap itself lovingly around the mage, drape over the bed, and continue on to spill beyond the confines of the bed into the dark of the room glittering and gleaming softly, should he care to look. “Holy gods, where di’ tha’ come from?”

“Told ye there was more’n one way o’ transferrin’ energy.” There was a smug, contented note to Roarke’s voice, one that might have rankled, if it hadn’t seemed his every nerve was aglow. Instead, he managed a garbled sound of agreement, and let every muscle go lax, concentrating only on returning his breath to normal. He felt the mage’s hand light against his back after a while, despite the patchworked tissues, stroking up and down along his spine, a soothing, softly repetitive touch.

“’M no’ goin’ tae sleep yet,” he warned, turning his head to meet the dark gaze that watched him so fondly. They were amused, those eyes; he didn’t need light to distinguish the fine crinkle of folds where they narrowed, or to discern the smile gleaming there.

“Nay?” A hard arm banded across his back, and the mage rolled, sprawling Nick under him. “Whell, then, lad, ye jist lay there. Ah’ll take care o’ ye, this time.”

It was long and slow, this time, with lingering strokes like elderdown against his skin, creating a haze of quieter need that wrapped around them like wispy clouds. This was for comfort and reconnection as much as mutual pleasure, and it was heavenly. Hands and lips coasted over his body, trailed by the brush of long, fiery hair gone bloodied ink in the low light, a cool waterfall of silk. Nick swiftly buried his hands in the glory of it, letting the strands flow over and around his fingers. He shifted, opening his legs as his much abused hips would allow, to give Roarke at least a nominal place to put himself, as well as total access to his body—such as it was.

A tone of doubt sparked softly in the back of his mind. Perhaps it hadn’t been so wonderful an idea, to let Roarke linger over him. He was…changed. And foolish a thought as it was – he _knew_ the mage didn’t care, wouldn’t care, and would be stunned, and hurt, if he suggested such a thing—he didn’t much like having been changed in this way. Made to hesitate again, if only internally, at allowing intimacy. Hands on his skin no longer meant Roarke or a vague, easily waved away shadow from the past; they could be fearful now, truly terrifying nightmares. He woke thrashing, more often than not. He disliked the scars; hated the restrictions on his movements, the tiredness that lurked constantly by his side. He didn’t like being marked in this way, a victim and—

“Come back naow, Nick-luv,” Roarke murmured against his collarbone, pausing half-way through nibbling lightly along the length of it to look up, and pin him with a steady gaze. His hand paused too, knuckles brushing over the soft skin of his love’s hesitant erection.

“S-sorry—” It was going badly. He wanted to close his eyes; wanted to hide mortification and discomfort. Instead, he grimaced, and pushed his hips closer. “Don’ stop. I’ll get over’t.”

“Ye push tae hard, Nick,” the mage said, shifting to kiss him softly. “’s alroight if ye want tae stop.”

“Nae, it’s not,” he snapped, then took a breath when the mage paused. “I want tae do’t. ‘M no’ goin’ tae let ‘em win by ruinin’ this fer us.”

Roarke considered his face, noting the stubbornness, the anger, and probably the lurking fear that it would never be the same between them. Again, Nick wanted to squirm, as he sometimes did, when those black eyes went so intense and focused, turned on him.

Slowly, without either moving, candles began to flicker to life around the room, throwing soft golden light across them, illuminating every feature of both their bodies.

“We’ll exorcise these ghosts o’ ours properly, then.”

 

Exorcism by fire, it seemed, was what Roarke had meant. Certainly, the mage seemed intent on rendering them both alight. Lips and teeth and tongue joined with stroking fingertips, silky hair, and too, too much heat to drive him relentlessly toward desire, until Nick was forced past reciprocation and had to cling, fingers biting deep and both arms hooked around strong shoulders. Every line, every scar and blemish and shadow of bruising, turned pale gold by candlelight, was hunted up, examined minutely, and worshiped.

“On yer front, boy-o; Ah’m no’ done yet wit’ ye,” the mage growled, rasping and guttural in Nick’s ear, as hard hands moved him like a doll, loosing him, and sprawling him facedown before he could do much more than gasp.

A fingertip traced through the fine hairs at his nape, drawing a hard shudder and spasmodic twitches in his fingers, curling into the soft sheets. It moved downward, a lazy circuitous route down his spine in airy, butterfly touches, outlining the tender pink edges of all the scrapes and cuts. A mouth, hard and fierce against his flesh followed, ghosting hot puffs of air over every tingling inch of skin. A clever tongue darted out, following every crude line of the brand on his shoulder, little flicking strokes, to be followed by an affectionate nuzzle at the curve of his throat that had Nick’s heart leaping over an additional beat. But those hot lips didn’t linger there; they continued their blazing path down, down, down, over his ribs, delineating the muscles in his back, murmuring scorching words where back melded with arse, then over those as well, the occasional nip making him jolt.

 

The backs of his lover’s thighs were sensitive, the mage noted—triply so, by now. They quivered, and shifted on the bedclothes, flexing. The knees, though…they were special. A gust of warm breath and the press of lips to the soft skin there had made Nick’s shoulders roll and hunch; the stroke of his tongue had made the man arch, fully, off the bed, joints audibly popping with the suddenness, babbling nonsense like ‘Oh, gods, gods, _stop!_ ” in a voice that demanded just the opposite. Roarke had mercy though, and refrained in favor of mouthing all the way down to each ankle; he wanted to be inside Nick when his lover came. Or at least, he wanted to be watching silver-pewter eyes go dark and blank with too many gorgeous emotions to name properly, headed first and foremost with blinding pleasure, the kind he knew now that the man hadn’t ever been given before, at any other’s hands. It was a heady knowledge.

“’ad enough?” The question, and a subsequent move flipping Nick over a second time, onto his back again, produced a huffed gasp and flailing limbs. Silver eyes were nearly black, they were so dialated, and only half-open. The mage didn’t bother waiting for an answer, but ducked his head to the waiting prize that strained so prettily, pearls dribbling liberally down the side. A thin, hoarse sound emerged when he lapped at it, knuckles grazing the tender spot at it’s base, and the sprawling limbs twitched and shifted weakly. Nick’s cock jerked, his balls tightening and drawing high. The sight made his own body, just as close as his lover’s, strain for release.

“Nae, luv, no’ jist yet.” He summoned oil, managed the stopper with shaking fingers. The oil slopped over the bed as well his fingers and Nick—he’d deal with it later. He was already banishing the bottle, sliding testing fingers against the tight ring of muscle. It gave, and then more as he probed further. Nick’s breath sobbed, his approval wordless but apparent by the way he opened and arched, far past any pain his hip might have protested with.

One endless, less than perfectly gentle push later, the world was splintering around them both, and they were falling together into ether.

 

The mage was crushing him into their bedding, slumped heavily over his body. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, far from it, rather he enjoyed the warmth and pressure, the weight, wreathed in Roarke’s scent. But it was becoming difficult to breathe, and the protests from his physical limitations were shortening the after glow considerably.

“Roarke,” he murmured, and shifted. The other man stirred, taking his weight up again in a languid movement, braced on forearms, bracketing Nick’s head. Strands of fire brushed against his cheek as the mage’s head rose, ‘til their gazes touched. Then their lips, a soft, simultaneous movement that gave only the barest contact. It was tender though, for all it’s evanescence, the brush of lips held more intimacy even than the other places their forms touched, at hands, with fingers clutching, at loins, pressed close and closer still.

“Mine,” Nicodemus murmured, as the contact parted, and his eyelids lifted. “ _A gaol_.”

“Yer verra slow, mah lad, if’n yer only figurin’ oout naow,” Roarke replied, and whispered tiny kisses over his face. “Ye’ve loved me fer months. No’ tae long af’er Ah brought ye ‘ere.”

“’ave I, indeed?” a dark eyebrow arched lazily, mimicking his lover’s favorite expression, and earning a nip on the lip for impertinence.

“Oh, aye, luv. T’was the library an’ the baths tha’ did’t. The sex only ‘elped mah cause.” He withdrew, slow and long, a slick slide of flesh against sensitized flesh that had Nick shuddering under him at the feel of it, limbs trembling in a valiant attempt to absorb still more sensation.

“Mm, dinna forget the magic. ‘s verra sexy,” Nick murmured, proving his words true by letting a tendril of energy slither down his lover’s spine, eliciting a shocked jerk that had them pressing close again. “Wot o’ you?”

“Ah, boy-o,” Roarke sighed, collapsing into a lanky sprawl beside him, and gathering him close as candles dimmed and an absent wave of a hand had their bed cleaning itself. “Ye ‘ad me from the first. An’ then ye compounded the fact, openin’ yer eyes, an’ yer mouth, an’ spittin’ venom a’ me.”

Those silver eyes opened again, and regarded him incredulously. “Yer jokin’, I hope.”

The red-headed mage shrugged, a smile curling around his lips. “Little hellcat, ye were, love. Still are, really. Ah loike’t, gods know why.”

“You are mad, Roarke,” Nick decided, and nuzzled closer still. “Doesn’t seem tae matter, though.”

 

* * *

 

  

 _Thank you, my dear_ , the Goddess’s voice was soft and motherly in her mind, a comfortable brush of contact. _It is a relief to see them happy, at last_.

Ghada nodded agreement as the Northern Goddess slipped away, sipping at the strong, spicy tea she’d brewed for herself, allowing the fuss of the day drain away into the soft gloom of the warm kitchen. It brought a tugging smile to her lips, that _Assayed_ Roarke and his Nick had found and kept one another, despite all that had happened in the last months. Thalia had allowed her only the briefest glimse of their future; a reward for agreeing to act as Channel. It was a good one, if she had seen true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone so much for reading, and for the incredible patience of dealing with an author who randomly took a several-year hiatus without warning.
> 
> Cheers!


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